


We Owe This To Ourselves

by flash0flight



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Rule 63, Stephanie Rogers - Freeform, genderbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight/pseuds/flash0flight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s said that so many times Steph can almost hear it in her sleep. “Get better.” As though it’s all that matters to him.<br/>And sometimes, with the way Bucky says it, Steph almost believes that it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I hold it all (when I hold you)

**Author's Note:**

> A genderbent version Captain America: The First Avenger - and what came before it for Steph and Bucky.  
> Titles of the fic itself and all chapters from Anberlin songs because I have an unhealthy obsession

Some days, it’s almost more than Steph can bear. The coughing, the choking, the shivering, the constant feeling that she’s drowning, being unable to take more than a gasp of breath, her chest rattling like a child’s toy. It’s as though she just didn’t make it to the health department in time before she was born, like she got there and they just turned her away with an apology for being short-stocked.

Some days, she wants to curse whatever higher power is out there, whatever god thought it would be okay to give her asthma and an arrhythmia, let her catch scarlet fever when she was younger, let her heart have trouble, let her catch every illness she’s come in contact with her whole life. For all she knows she’s got tuberculosis, too. She wouldn’t be surprised—it killed her mom already; it’s only a matter of time.

Some days, Steph can’t imagine living like this anymore, can’t help but feel as though there’s no point, like she’s never going to be anything. What kind of scrawny thirteen-year-old kid with asthma and creaking joints could ever be _anything_? No matter how much she stands up to the bullies, ignores the teasing, pretends she doesn’t care, she _does—_ Some days, she does, and it kills her, knowing she’ll never fit. Never be more than a waste of breath.

Some days, Stephanie Rogers doesn’t want to do this anymore.

But no matter what, every single day, he makes it all worth it.

“Almost got caught, but I managed to get my hands on Sister Frances’s hot water bottle.“

Bucky’s voice seems light and easy on the surface, but Steph’s known him for five years now, and she’s long since learned to see the signs, to hear the tells that make it obvious that Bucky’s not exactly okay.

“You shouldn’t have done that; she’ll hit the roof.“

Steph manages to spit out a sentence without coughing more than once, astonishingly enough, but it’s followed by a rattling cough that she can feel through her whole body. _Damnit_.

“Hey—take it easy, here—“A glass of water finds its way to her hand, held steady by his own, and Steph can’t help but smile just a little when Bucky helps her shift up, careful to keep the blanket tucked securely around her as she takes a sip, careful not to have too much. Winter nights and early mornings have always been the worst for her, but—well, Bucky does what he can to make it right. Or as right as possible, at least.

Then again, Bucky’s always made everything right, ever since he helped Steph peel herself off the ground in a back alley five years ago. When Steph’s mom had just died and she’d just landed at the orphanage, when all she knew was how to have a sharp tongue that got her into trouble and how to defend herself from all she could manage.

So long as she doesn’t think too hard about how incredible he is, she’ll be fine.

Hopefully.

“You really didn’t have to. I would’ve been fine.”

Easing back down against the pillows, Steph lets Bucky set the glass of water on her nightstand again, watching with a slight frown as he settles at the foot of her bed, pushing the hot water bottle under the sheets as close to her feet as he dares. And—god, it makes a world of difference, not just having the bottle there, but knowing Bucky brought it to her because he couldn’t _stand_ seeing her like this.

“Well, you’ll be fine a lot sooner, now. Just gotta make sure we hide it when they do the rounds on Friday.”

“Just like the mugs you stole, and the extra blanket, and my old sketchbooks, huh?”

Bucky chuckles softly and reaches out, brushing Steph’s hair off her forehead, and it’s such a familiar, worn-in motion that Steph can’t help but lean into it, can’t help but smile at the brush of his fingertips on her skin, and she has to remind herself for the tenth time today that it’s just because she’s sick, just because it’s nice to have that little bit of extra comfort when she’s not feeling well.

That’s gotta be it, right?

“Yeah, sounds about right. Don’t worry about it right now, though. You gotta get some rest.”

“I know, I know—Hey, Bucky. Thanks. For—thanks.”

“Don’t have to thank me every time, just. Get better.”

Bucky’s said that so many times Steph can almost hear it in her sleep. “Get better.” As though it’s all that matters to him.

And sometimes, with the way Bucky says it, Steph almost believes that it is.

—

It’s Steph’s sixteenth birthday, and thank god it’s summer, because if there’s one day she would loathe to spend in bed, it’s today.

Not that anyone really notices; July 4th is far too important for anyone to remember anything as small as one girl’s birthday. There’s celebrations everywhere, parties and picnics through the park, families enjoying the day for what it is, fireworks planned for later. And none of it’s for her; none of it ever has been.

But all of that’s okay, because _he_ remembers. Bucky always remembers, and whenever he looks at her on her birthday, Steph feels as though every celebration, every shout and cheer, every firework and every decoration is all for her.

“Sixteen, huh. Still the same eight-year-old brat from when we met.”

Steph can’t help but chuckle, hesitating for a moment before dropping her head on Bucky’s shoulder, and it’s—much more to her than it is to him, she’s sure. Much more than it _ever_ has been, but—it’s enough for her. Especially today.

“And you’re still the same jerk who had to butt into a fight that wasn’t his.”

“Yeah, well. Sue me. I was helping a damsel in—“

“Say distress and I’ll hit you.”

It’s easy like this, the same back and forth they’ve always had, simple and safe and comfortable, it’s enough. It has to be—it has been for years, ever since they met, since Bucky saved her ass from a fight she was too small and sick to face. Since Bucky found her alone and offered her a hand she didn’t know she needed.

She tries not to think too hard about the spark in her chest when Bucky’s arm wraps around her waist, tells herself it’s just because he wants to make sure she’s not cold, because he’s looking after her like he has for years. Making sure she doesn’t have a fever, making sure the slight chill in the evening draft isn’t going through her like it does sometimes, making sure she’s healthy and safe. That’s all it is.

“You’ve never been a damsel in distress, y’know.”

Bucky’s murmur is quiet against her hair, a little muffled but she hears it loud and clear, and it warms her to the very tips of her fingers and toes, like it always does when he tells her she’s more than just a sick little girl.

“Just like you’ve never been a jerk. Not really.”

“We all know that’s a lie.”

“Well—not to me. And it’s my birthday, so that’s all that matters, right?”

“Right—right.”

Silence falls on them, broken only by the sounds of the fireworks erupting and Steph’s own heart thumping in her chest, the noise of it echoing in her ears and it just seems too loud, too obvious that it’s made all the worse by Bucky being so close, holding her so carefully. And she should really pull away, they should _go_ —they’ll be in trouble if they don’t head back soon, and Steph can’t afford another week of dealing with the sisters’ version of grounding.

But just when she’s ready to pull away, a hand tucks under her chin, tilting her head up until she meets Bucky’s eyes, and he doesn’t even give her a chance to say anything before he leans in to press his lips against hers, and it’s— _wow_ , it’s _everything_ , all Steph could have ever dreamed of and _more_ , it’s steady and soft and sweet, makes her heart leap, makes her feel as though she’s floating and sinking all at once, flying and drowning in the feel of the kiss at the same time.

They finally break apart to take a gasp of air, and Steph can’t help the smile curling the corners of her lips.

“Happy birthday, Steph.”

Bucky’s voice is warm, soft, so careful as though he’s not sure what he’s done, not sure that Steph’s not going to try and hit him for it - not that it would make any difference if she did. But he doesn’t seem—scared, he doesn’t seem to regret it. If anything, he seems relieved.

Steph can’t help but wonder if he can see the same relief in her own eyes, because she’s sure it’s there.

There are a hundred things Steph could say here, admissions or pleas or surprise or _reasons this is a bad idea_ , but all Steph _wants_ to do is lean in closer, press her lips to Bucky’s in another kiss. She leans into the feeling and lets it spread through her body, allowing it to take over, because god knows if Bucky’s going to want this again, and she sure as hell doesn’t want to waste it by hesitating, by not trying her best to memorise the way his lips feel pressed against hers, the way his arm is winding around her waist and drawing her closer, the way she can somehow still hear his heart beating even over the top of her own thundering in her ears.

Steph only pulls back when she’s out of breath, sucking in air like she’s drowning, and she feels _incredible_ , like she was never sick to begin with, like she could climb a mountain or run a marathon. Not that she wants to—if anything, she wants to stay right here, losing herself in the deep, gorgeous brown eyes.

“Sure beats that chipped mug you gave me when we were ten.”

“Hey, you said you loved that.”

“I did—I still do.”

The smile that spreads across Bucky’s is warm and soft and so _familiar,_ it feels like home and Steph _loves_ it, loves the way it curls a little higher on the left, the way it reaches his eyes immediately, and— _Jesus_ , it’s not just any smile anymore, it’s for _her_.

It’s all for her.

And there are so many questions, so many things Steph wants to know—how long has he felt like this, _why didn’t he say anything sooner_ —But none of it matters now.

Now, they’ve got time. 

Time for Steph to shift a little closer, to take a chance and lean her head on his shoulder, and she’s rewarded with the feel of Bucky’s hand wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer to get rid of that little bit of distance left between them and holding her close, and it’s—Sure, Bucky’s held her before, but this is different, this is careful and tender and _amazing._ And Steph can't seem to get enough of it, can’t help but lean into the feel of it, of everything she’s wanted for _years_ now.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Because this, curling up together and watching the fireworks, spending her birthday _together_ like this? This is perfect.

—

Steph’s favourite part of summer was always having free time to see the _entire_ city. Not only because they don’t need to worry about homework or assignments, but because she’s not so _sick_. Because the air makes her lungs feel a little more clear, because the warmth makes her feel a little stronger, a little more steady. And Steph’s always _loved_ that—and loved the way Bucky always let her do so, let her run wild and let her drag him along.

Now though, Summer is different. It’s not about seeing the city for the fifth time over, it’s not about making the most of the health she’s got to re-memorise every street, every sign, every crack in every sidewalk. It’s about making the most of the time she gets to spend with Bucky.

And she most certainly has, because they’ve been _everywhere_ over the past couple of weeks, taking the city bit by bit, taking advantage of Steph’s newfound strength and slowly settling illnesses. Making the most of the time they have together, the way everything looks different, _feels_ different when they rush around the streets hand in hand, pausing for nothing but to remind themselves how it feels to reel the other in for a kiss.

Even now, with both of them settled under a tree in Central Park, Steph wrapped up so comfortably in Bucky’s arms like she could stay here forever—god, the trees sound different, the grass feels different, the whole part _feels_ like something new, something Steph wants to discover again. And she can’t help but feel as if she did another sketch here, like she’s done a hundred times before, it would be entirely different.

She can’t wait to find out.

—

It’s hard to focus on the portfolio for Steph’s applications when all she can think of is this goddamn war that’s rampaging through the world, and there’s just _something_ that pulls at her, makes her want to fight, to do whatever she can—but there’s no way, women can’t go into combat, can’t even _enlist_ , and even if she could, she would still have to pass the physical examination. And in her state? That’s not very likely.

They’re only twenty, though, and Bucky’s already thinking about signing up, marching off and going to _war_ like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Steph gets it, she really does—but it kills her, imagining him disappearing like that, trying to picture him in a uniform with a gun in his hand, being shot at and trying his best to survive, _god please let him survive—_

Shaking her head, Steph focuses on the half-filled page before her, a sketch of the view from the roof they really shouldn’t be sitting on. It’s not the best apartment building, but they can’t really afford better right now, and at least the heat still works. And the roof’s got one hell of a view, as Bucky had found out, surprising Steph with it one night the summer after they’d moved in, blindfolding her and leading her up here to find a picnic rug spread out with candles and food all ready and waiting.

It had been an incredible night, and Steph knows she’ll never forget it. Hell, she can still _picture_ it, perched on a chair near the door, bundled up in the warmest blanket they’ve got with her sketchbook balanced on her knees. And the view is as gorgeous as ever, but Steph just—doesn’t _see_ it, doesn’t see _anything_ beyond the way Bucky’s eyes had lit up upon seeing the enlistment posters.

And it’s as if he doesn’t get it, like he doesn’t _see_ it, and maybe it’s because he knows she can’t enlist, can’t go out there and fight, but he doesn’t seem to understand that every time he sees himself going out there to fight, Steph just sees him _die._

Which is something she can’t live with, not after everything they’ve been through together. Not after Bucky became the _one_ person in the world who could make her feel like she’s more than she thought.

“Dinner is served—Steph?”

Snapping back to reality, Steph turns to offer Bucky a smile, but her heart isn’t in it, and she can see the frown on Bucky’s face pulling deeper, wrinkling his forehead in concern.

“What is it?”

No matter how many times she’s heard it, no matter how often Bucky voices his concerns, no matter how much he’s curled around her and comforted her, no matter how _wonderful_ it always is to hear that warmth in Bucky’s voice, it still manages to surprise her every single time, that he would worry about her that much.

“Nothing—nothing. Stupid—sketch is giving me troubles, that’s all.”

The sigh is thick and longer than it should be, but Steph can’t help it, trying to bury her frustrations, trying to settle the concerns and fears in her heart before Bucky catches them out.

Like it makes any difference; he sees through her no matter what she does.

“Steph—“

Before she knows it, Bucky’s kneeling in front of her, setting her book aside and taking her hands in his, and his hands are always so much _bigger_ , so warm and soothing, familiar calluses from all the time he spends writing, the comfortable way their fingers seem to tangle together so easily and it just—it _fits_.

And that always surprises her, too.

“Talk to me. Please?”

Damnit. There’s no way Steph could ever say no to him.

“You’re gonna enlist, aren’t you.”

Her words come out soft and careful, little more than a whisper, and she can see Bucky’s expression change; she’s seen it before when they’ve talked about this.

“Steph, do we have to—“

“ _Yes_ , we do—I can’t stop _thinking_ about it, you don’t understand—“

“I _do_ , Steph—honey, please—“

“ _No—_ “

Steph’s grip tightens on Bucky’s hands before she can help it, a little shaky and a lot desperate and she doesn’t know how to _say_ it, how to make him understand that it’s not—

“You _don’t_ —You don’t, Bucky. You don’t get it because I _can’t_ go out there, they won’t let me, you don’t have to worry about—about losing—“

Bucky moves before Steph’s words cut off, rushing up to wrap his arms around her, pulling her closer and just _holding_ her and—god, he’s so solid, so stable and so _wonderful_ that it’s so easy to sink into him, to settle in the steady feel of his arms around her, the constant beating of his heart, and she can’t for a moment imagine losing this, losing _him_.

“Steph, m’gonna come home.”

He murmurs the words into her hair like a promise, like he’ll come back for them later, like he just _knows_ everything’s gonna be okay, but no one _does_. Steph’s dad didn’t know it when he went off to war, fighting a battle Steph can’t even remember, besides what they say in the history books now. And she wants to believe him, more than _anything_ she wants to be able to say with all certainty that Bucky’s gonna come home to her—but she doesn’t know that. _No one_ knows that, not for sure.

And that kills her. That she doesn’t know. Bucky’s all she has, and she doesn’t even _know_ if he’s gonna come home to her or not.

All she can do is curl up in Bucky’s arms like this, let him shift her into his lap and hold her, let him press kisses and assurances against her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, her lips, let him make her feel as though everything in the world is okay _right now_ , even though she knows it won’t be forever.

—

“Marry me.”

Steph hears the words; she knows Bucky’s the one saying them, but she can’t quite _believe it_ , she can’t manage to comprehend just what they mean, just what Bucky wants, and it’s—

“What—what? Bucky—“

“No, don’t—“

Bucky reaches for her hands, tangling their fingers together tight and Steph will _always_ be surprised by just how well they fit like that, just like she’s always surprised by how comfortable they are like this, sprawled out over the bed, Steph leaning against Bucky’s chest while she sketches, Bucky propped up against the bed head, and they’ve done this a hundred times before and Bucky’s _never_ asked—

“I know—I _know_ what you want to say, we can’t—we can’t afford it, we don’t have the time, I _know_ —but at least then I can take care of you, I can _know_ I’m taking care of you, even from over there I can—I just—“

Bucky pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t shake. There’s no hesitation, there’s no _doubt_ , and it’s not the first time Steph’s been caught off-guard by that, by the way Bucky loves her so much, that he’s so sure about _them_.

Shifting around, Steph turns to face Bucky, reading his expression, searching his eyes, and—he’s _serious_. God, he could ship out in a matter of _weeks_ and yet he still wants to—

“I love you, Steph.”

It’s entirely natural to lean into Bucky’s touch, into the feel of his hand on her cheek, the way he traces over her skin like she’s something rare and delicate, something he can’t bear to be without, and it’s such a use-worn movement, so simple and yet so _familiar_ that Steph can’t imagine anything more wonderful than this exact moment.

“I love you too, Bucky. I’ve _always_ loved you, for so long, you’re—“

Taking a deep breath, Steph raises her own hand, resting it on Bucky’s and—god, this makes _sense_ , not just because Bucky’s disappearing to who knows where, not just because he might not be coming home, but because it feels _right._ Because above all else, Steph knows she’ll never love anyone else. She _knows_ that Bucky—well, he’s everything, he’s _it_.

“Okay. Okay, let’s—Let’s. Get married.”

If Steph thought Bucky was gorgeous before, that’s _nothing_ compared to the way his face lights up, the flash of joy, of pure happiness that appears on his face, to the way his arms wrap more tightly around her, reeling her in for a kiss, and with every passing moment, this entire idea seems more incredible, more _perfect_.

“You really—you mean it? We can’t afford—well, anything beyond going to City Hall, but that’s—I mean, I _hope_ it’s enough, if you—“

“It’s enough, Bucky.”

Steph doesn’t need to think before she answers, leaning in for another kiss, slow and steady and _amazing_ , absolutely wonderful just like everything other kiss they’ve had.

“It’s—of _course_ it’s enough, how could it not—It’s. Enough, I promise. _You’re_ enough, you—always have been.”

And just when Steph though Bucky couldn’t look any happier, a grin splits his face, bright and blinding, and it’s something she will _never_ be tired of seeing.

They don’t even know if Bucky’s going to come home, they have _no_ idea what’s going to happen—but for now, Steph’s happy with this. _More_ than happy, ecstatic, utterly thrilled because above all else, she gets to marry the man of her dreams.

And that’s all she could ever want.

—

At least Steph can say that for what could be their last night together, Bucky did not disappoint. Not that he ever does.

He took Steph to the fair, to see Stark’s display, and he’d made a point of dragging Steph away from the enlistment building as so not to remind her too much of where she’s going, then taken her to all their favourite places in the city. He even took her to Central Park, curled up with her under the same tree they sit by every single summer until it was too late, until they finally had to head home.

And home for them is a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with a minuscule kitchen and a cramped living area, but it’s _home_ , it’s warm and it’s safe and it’s _them._ There’s a bookshelf in the corner filled with American history books and art books and sketchbooks Steph’s filled up over the years.

There’s old, dingy collectables they’ve had for years, things they scraped together enough change to get in some corner store, things Bucky swiped before he could find the cash for them.

There’s the old, chipped mug he’d gotten for her when they were younger, there’s old storybooks he’d read to her when she was sick. There’s the first ever watercolour painting Steph did, the one she loved to pieces back in high school, the one Bucky had gotten framed after slaving for months just to save up enough to give her a birthday present she adored to pieces when she turned eighteen.

And then there’s the two of them, curled up under their sheets, clinging so closely to each other as though maybe, just maybe, it means Bucky won’t be taken away. As though somehow, if she holds on tight enough, Steph won’t have to let him go.

She won’t. She _can’t_.

It’s late—or maybe it’s early, Steph’s not sure which—and it feels like they’ve been here for hours, as though they haven’t been out all over the city, as though Bucky hadn’t taken her dancing. As though all they’ve done all night is curl up together like nothing else in the world matters. Every now and then, Steph can’t help but look at the ring on her finger, and not for the first time Steph’s glad she got her mother’s possessions when she passed away.

Because for all they couldn’t afford, they at least had rings—Steph’s parents’ wedding rings, to be exact. And they’re _perfect_. Just like this is, no matter how scared she is that it might be the last perfect night they’re going to get.

 And every now and then, Bucky mumbles something into her hair, presses words against her cheek, her forehead, so careful and gentle with her as though he fears she might shatter.

And she might; Steph’s not sure. All she really knows is right now everything feels _okay_ , and in the morning it won’t anymore. And she knows it.

“M’coming home, y’know.”

Bucky’s said it a few hundred times since he started talking about enlisting, and he says it as though he _believes_ it, but Steph knows neither of them can be sure of that. She _knows_ there’s too much doubt, too much that’s uncertain, too much _risk_ out there. The chances aren’t looking good, and as much as Steph wants to hope there’s some sort of possibility that Bucky’s coming home to her, she knows he probably won’t.

And it kills her.

“Don’t, Bucky—“

Shifting a little in his arms, Steph carefully tucks her head under his chin, pressing a little closer as though maybe he’ll understand that she doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to have to face the fact that neither of them can know that for sure.

“Please, just—“

“ _No_ —No, Steph—Look at me—“

Before Steph can react, Bucky’s tilting her head up, fingers tucked under her chin so carefully and not for the first time she finds herself breathless when she meets her eyes, falling into that bottomless, deep brown that makes everything else seem so cold, so _dull_ , and of course, Bucky makes the most of it—

“I’m coming home, okay? I made a promise, and I’m—I’m coming home.”

And he sounds so sure, so _determined_ that Steph just doesn’t have it in her to argue, can’t bring herself to say that _maybe he won’t_ , can’t find it in herself to do more than tuck her head under Bucky’s chin, curl a little closer to him and hold on tight, because more than anything she’s _hoping_ he does.

—

Bucky asked her to stay home, didn’t want her to have to see him leave, but standing in the middle of their tiny apartment, Steph can’t help but wish she had gone to see him off anyway, because now—everything just seems _empty_. She’s so used to coming in and finding Bucky draped over the couch half-asleep or frantically racing around their minuscule kitchen trying desperately—and normally failing—to make her dinner.

God only knows if she’s ever going to see it again. If she’s ever going to see _him_ again.

—

Volunteering to serve is the one thing Steph’s always wanted to do, the one thing she _can’t_ do, not only because she’s a woman but also because her health isn’t exactly up to scratch—but there is one thing she can volunteer for. And as Steph stares up at the new recruitment poster for an experiment, calling on young men and women who can’t enlist to take part in something called”Project Rebirth”.

Whatever it is, it’s better than hanging around here and waiting, right?

It has to be. Because maybe, just maybe, if she makes it through, Steph can finally get to do what she’s wanted to do for so long. She can finally have a chance to serve, to save lives, to protect people.

And maybe, just maybe, she’ll find Bucky.


	2. Am I the greatest in your arsenal (or just the latest in your art of war)?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'All I got was you. And you—are not enough.'
> 
> Well, it’s not the first time Steph’s heard that. But for some reason, Colonel Philips’ words echo in her head as she pulls on her ridiculous costume, forcing herself into tights with absurd thigh-high red boots and a frilled skirt to match the countless backup girls who’re already ready.  
> And she can’t help but wonder how she got stuck like this after chasing down the man who’d shot Erskine, how she ended up playing some show pony in an attempt to sell war bonds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of the very delayed Christmas present for Jackie  
> Beta'ed again by Anji because she's wonderful  
> Title from Anberlin's Art of War because I have a problem  
> I'm sorry it's taking so long guys ;; the next chapter won't be completed until after Cap 2 comes out, partly because I want to make it accurate and partly because very soon I'm going to America for a holiday~~  
> Enjoy!

Weeks upon weeks of grueling training, of forcing herself through every activity, gritting her teeth against the pain and the shortness of breath, the aches in her chest, in her joints, spreading throughout her own body every night, and— _maybe_ it’s going to pay off, _maybe_ it’s going to be worth it.

At least it got her somewhere, it—god, it got her selected, it’s given her an option to _be_ something, to be more than just the sick little comic-strip artist who’s hardly earning her keep. Maybe it’s going to give her a chance to be something worthwhile, to do what she’s always wanted to do.

Not for the first time, she reads over the contract she’d signed, the waiver stating that she will not hold the SSR responsible for what this experiment may bring, that she understands the risks, the possibilities of what could happen to her (both good and bad) despite Doctor Erskine’s insistence that it’s all going to go fine, that she was practically made for this. And Steph—she’s fine with all of it; she’s _ready_ for it, however it turns out.

But she can’t help but hope that it works.

—

The capsule cracks open, and Steph has to remind herself not to stumble out right away, to hold herself up and catch her breath. because the floor suddenly seems _much_ further away than before. Sucking in a lungful of air, it’s a little surprising not to have to fight to take in enough, not to have to force herself to breathe normally, not to have to brush off the dull ache of asthma in her chest—it’s not there anymore, cleared up by the serum coursing through her veins, chased away and replaced with a solidarity, a sort of strength Steph’s _never_ felt, never had a _chance_ to feel.

And she can’t help but be a little glad, a little _relieved_ because as much as she was used to it, as much as she never let it get to her, it’s… _nice_ , not to be sick. It’s nice not to have to remind herself to take deep breaths but just to take them, not to have to hold back but knowing she can push herself now, knowing she can do _more_ , and do what she’s wanted to do for so long now.

Not to mention if Bucky comes home— _when,_ it has to be when—she’ll finally feel as though she’s what he deserves, as though she _finally_ measures up.

Stepping down out of the capsule, everything seems sort of a blur around her, people fussing and rushing around, nurses and scientists running here there and everywhere in an attempt to settle the equipment down. Stark’s got a hand on her back to hold her steady, as does Doctor Erskine, and both of them are—god, they’re looking _up_ at her in pure astonishment.

And it’s just a tad overwhelming because there’s only ever been one person who looks at her like that. And god, how she wishes he were here—

Everything’s still moving too fast, and before anyone knows it there’s an explosion. Shots ring out, and Erskine’s lying in her arms, and Steph can’t believe it, can’t _understand_ because this shouldn’t have _happened_ , not to him, not to someone so kind and so strong, not to the first person who believed in her since—

All Steph can do is watch as the light fades from Erskine’s eyes, taking in his last motions (the slight gestures toward her heart), and she can hear his words echoing in her head, reminding her it’s not about being a _soldier_ , but it’s about being good, being _who she is_.

And now, who she is can go after the bastard who took him away from her way too soon.

—

 _All I got was you. And you—are not enough_.

Well, it’s not the first time Steph’s heard that. But for some reason, Colonel Philips’ words echo in her head as she pulls on her ridiculous costume, forcing herself into tights with absurd thigh-high red boots and a frilled skirt to match the countless backup girls who’re already ready.

And she can’t help but wonder how she got stuck like this after chasing down the man who’d shot Erskine, how she ended up playing some show pony in an attempt to sell war bonds.

Taking a deep breath, Steph brushes off the skirt of her outfit again, trying to ignore the way it’s a little shorter than she’d like, and how the boots pinch her toes, not to mention the fact that she’s _never_ worn anything like this before and _dear god, what would her mother think_ —

Someone shoves a loose cowl onto her head, and it’s meant to obscure half of her face while still leaving her now-thick and curled hair free just to add to the image of their new star-spangled inspiration. Someone else pushes a shield into her hands, and it’s the only reasonable part of her whole outfit, well-sized and decently made, though she can’t help but frown at the dialogue notes stuck to the back of it in case she forgets.

The music sounds, the lights brighten, and Steph knows she has all of five seconds to pull herself together and get out there to sell these bonds, to do what she has to do.

And she can’t help but wonder, as she stumbles out onto the stage, if this is all she’s meant for. Prancing around on a stage and luring people into buying bonds, pouring money into a horrible war that doesn’t need more funding but needs to be brought to an end.

The one silver lining she has on this cloud is that at least Bucky doesn’t have to see her like this.

—

It doesn’t matter that it’s happened a hundred times, that she has guys sneaking peeks and chancing grabs at her all the time something feels _different_ here, in the middle of the war, so close to the fighting and the pain and the misery, and she’s not sure what to _do_ , how to handle—

Stumbling down the stairs, Steph manages a few nods at the chorus girls who file out past her, and she’s more than grateful for the few sympathetic glances she gets. And sure, she get shy, a little unsure, and it turns into anxious babbling most of the time when guys whistle at her, or when they made lewd remarks about her convenient the skirt is, grabbing at her whenever they think they can get away with it, but this—she’s come here to instill _hope_ , to give the fighting men a chance to see something familiar, something from home.

And instead, she’s been chased offstage by all those soldiers calling out to her, cat-calling and wolf-whistling and yelling out god only knows what. Maybe it’s upsetting because she’s not _really_ used to it, not really adjusted to having people find her attractive, to thinking she’s worth something just because she’s pretty now.

Or maybe it’s because she’s sure that if Bucky were in that crowd, he’d never say things like that. Really, if Bucky was _here_ right now, he’d never even _dream_ of it.

Maybe she’s just a little spoiled. Maybe she just misses him.

—

Steph takes all of three seconds to glance over the map Philips has pinned up before she’s marching right out of the tent, the man’s words echoing in her ears and she can’t believe it, she doesn’t _want_ to, she refuses to accept—

Bucky’s alive. He has to be.

Rushing into the tent that’s set up for costume changes for their performances, Steph snags a set of fatigues she’s spotted earlier, pulling them on over her absurd tights and searching for a pair of boots that’ll fit her. Her mind’s running a mile a minute even with Peggy going on and on about how ridiculous this whole idea is, that there’s nothing she can do, that there’s no way to _get there_.

Steph doesn’t care, though. She’ll _walk_ if she has to. She doesn’t have a choice. Not when there might be some sort of a chance to find Bucky, to _save_ him.

—

He’s got to be here somewhere, he’s _got_ to be—

The more corridors and hallways Steph runs through, the more she can’t help but feel her heart sinking. Every room she checks, every sound she investigates, it all gives her _nothing_ —no hints, no clues, not a single goddamn sign as to where they’re keeping Bucky. But he _has_ to be here, because Steph refuses to believe that Bucky might actually be gone. She refuses to even _consider_ that he’s gone, that some bastard’s taken him from her, not after everything they’ve been through together, not after—god, she needs him to _see_ this, needs to make sure he knows what she is now, needs to make sure he doesn’t need to look at her with worry in his eye. Make sure he understands they won’t have to face another winter where all Bucky wants to do is keep her warm and safe and healthy, no matter how hard that can be some years.

He needs to _know_.

A figure rushes out of a room into the hallway, and Steph knows she should chase him down—he doesn’t look like much, but she’s got perfect vision now. She can tell by the way he’s dressed, the glasses on his face and the case in his hand, the way he moves, that there’s more to him than they know right now.

But he’s off before she can say a word, disappearing into shadows faster than Steph is willing to move in a building she doesn’t know, and she’s here for a reason, and she’s not—

A faint sound draws her to a room, and it could be nothing. It could be the building moving against all the bullets and explosions outside, but Steph has to check, she can’t take the risk—

“Bucky—“

Jesus _Christ_ , what the _hell_ —

Strapped to a table, mumbling what sounds like his serial number, Bucky looks—god, he looks half-dead, sweating and dazed and unfocused until Steph sets a hand on his shoulder, trying desperately not to let her voice shake.

“Bucky, it’s me—it’s Steph, hey—“

“Steph—?“

Steph didn’t even _realise_ how much she missed his voice, how much she missed hearing Bucky say her name, how much she missed him in _general_ until right at this very moment, until she’s got her hands on him again. Steph doesn’t need to think twice as she breaks the straps off the table, trying not to think too hard about the fact that last time Bucky saw her, she couldn’t have considered doing something like that, and as much as she’d love a moment together, as much as she’d love to hug him, hold him again, _kiss him_ , there’s still a war going on, and she’s got to get him out of here before it’s too late.

“You—what _happened_ to you—“

“I joined the army.“

Smiling a little to herself, Steph pulls Bucky off the table, draping his arm over her shoulder like he’s done for her god knows how many times in the past and leading him towards the door. They’ve got to get out of here, get back to camp, get Bucky looked at and make sure they’re all right, and _then_ —then they can finally talk. Then, they can finally have everything she’s been missing ever since Bucky left.

—

“So, Captain America gets her own tent and everything.“

Bucky almost sounds like himself, _almost_ sounds like he hasn’t just been through all kinds of hell. He sounds so close to who he was when he left, but there’s…something else, something that’s changed, something a little darker, slightly cracked, and Steph can’t help but wonder just what they did to him, just what he’d _seen_.

But—there’s time for that. They’ve got the whole night together.

“Tried to tell them I don’t need it, but—well, they insisted. Besides, kinda glad now.“

She’s on her feet before she even realises, crossing the tent to take Bucky’s hands and pull him closer, and it’s— _different_ , being like this, being able to _look him in the eye_ , to finally feel as though she’s someone who deserves him, despite never having believed him when he’d always told her she did.

“You’re—okay? Medical checked you out?“

The words leave her mouth before Steph can help it, and it’s strange for her to be asking _him_ about his health, but...after seeing him like that? She can’t help it. She has to know that he’s okay, that she’s still not going to lose him.

Has to know he’s still going to come home with her.

“M’fine, relax—bit shaken up, they say I was in shock at some point. Though—that could’ve from seeing my wife in a whole new body.“

They both share a small chuckle, the sound holding much more weight than either of them want to admit. Steph had explained it all at some point on the way back to camp, had told Bucky about the experiments and all the training, about Erskine and Project Rebirth. About the chance it gave her.

“Well, I guess that means you’re gonna need some time to get used to it, huh.“

Reeling Bucky in, Steph loops her arms around his neck like she’s always done before, and now that they’re the same height it’s _different_ , being like this, seeing eye to eye, not having to stand on her tiptoes to lean her forehead against Bucky’s, to look him in the eye and lose herself in the gorgeous, deep brown like she always does.

“Good thing we’ve got all night, right?“

Before Steph can answer, Bucky leans in for the kiss they’ve both been _dying_ for, and it’s—even in a new body, it’s still the same, still feels incredible, like the whole war— the whole _world_ —just stops around them, like nothing else matters.

And right now, it doesn’t. None of it matters.

“Definitely a good thing. C’mon, let’s make the most of it.“

—

Marching out there with the Commandos by her side is something Steph could never had _dreamed_ of. Having a team like this, men who trust her, who put their lives in her hands and don’t doubt her for a moment. After her _entire life_ of being brushed aside, looked down upon, of never having a chance to fight for the little guy, Steph’s finally got the chance to make a difference.

And she’s making the most of it. With every intervention they make, every plan, every facility they hit, every single step,, Steph’s doing all she can to make the difference she knows she needs to make. To stop Hydra in their tracks, take them down before they can do any more damage, before they can carry out whatever hellish plan Schmidt has in mind.

More than anything, walking out with Bucky by her side every time, covering her back and still watching out for her the way he always has—that means much more to her than _any_ of this ever could. That he trusts her, that he _believes_ in her even after years of picking her up off the pavement and nursing her bloody noses and black eyes, after having to take care of her and keep her from getting her ass kicked too badly, he _trusts_ her to do what she has to.

It’s the one thing that keeps her going, even when nothing else seems to be able to do so.

—

“You sure about this train idea, Steph?“

The plan’s sound—solid, even—and it makes sense for them to target Zola like this. He’s the easiest way to Schmidt and everyone knows it. And there’s no way Bucky wouldn’t have brought this up in the meetings if he thought it wasn’t going to work, which means—

“Bucky, it’s gonna be fine. Stop _worrying_ so much.“

“Honey, you’re kinda jumping onto a _moving train_.“

“So are you.“

Pulling a face, Bucky reaches out for her, catching her hands and reeling her in closer before she can say anything. Steph doesn’t mind all that much, tangling their fingers together and watching him carefully, searching through his eyes for whatever it is he’s having trouble saying. He’ll figure it out though, he always does with her.

“You know I can’t help worrying about you.”

Steph can’t help but smile at that, bringing a hand up to stroke along Bucky’s cheek, and of course she knows, like she hasn’t _always_ known that. It was obvious years ago, every single time Bucky peeled her off the ground in another crappy back ally because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, or when he was sneaking her meds and hot water bottles through winter to keep her going.

Through everything, Bucky’s always been the only one who never _stopped_ worrying about her, who was there for her through all of it, even when she was scrawny and sickly and not even remotely worth it.

“I know, but—you gotta trust me on this, sweetheart. I’m gonna be fine, alright?“

Bucky doesn’t quite look like he believes her, but he nods anyway, leaning his forehead against Steph’s, and—there’s a world more for them both to say, more they know they _need_ to say before either of them are really all right with going out on a mission like this, but…for now, this is enough.

Being like this with Bucky, being close to him, feeling _safe_ in his arms—that’s always enough for Steph.

—

Adrenaline’s running high in her system as Steph peers through the window, leaning against the wall to stay steady as the train shakes and shudders around them; it’s the disadvantage of running a train at high speeds, apparently—and all she can think of is she needs to get the hell back in there before these guards catch Bucky. He’s out of bullets and out of options, and Steph can see him trying to hold back the panic as he glances around for an alternative, a last-ditch attempt to get out of this mess.

Tugging her own gun out of her holster, she takes a deep breath and elbows the button for the door, peering through it to catch Bucky’s attention before tossing him her gun, and it’s— _easy_ , straightforward working with him, knowing exactly what they’re both thinking without even having to say a word. It’s easy to rush through the door and hit one of the cylindrical cases on the shelf to distract the guard, knowing Bucky’s right there to take the shot at the right moment.

“I had him on the ropes.”

Steph would smile if they weren’t in the middle of a near-impossible mission.

“I know you did.”

Really, everything should be going perfectly. Everything should be _fine_. But something flashes in the corner of her eye—a hint of movement she catches just in time to block the blast coming their way, but it’s too hard and too close, and she can feel the shield wrenched from her hands as the deflected explosion blows the side of the train carriage open.

And the next thing she knows, she’s shaking her head and trying to push herself to her feet, and Bucky’s already got Steph’s shield in hand and he’s taking shots, doing what he’s been trained do to, doing what he has to protect her like he’s _always_ done.

But it’s not enough, and everything slows down before Steph’s eyes as Bucky’s blasted out the side of the carriage, dropping the shield and clinging desperately to a mangled railing.

Steph doesn’t really remember moving, doesn’t remember grabbing the abandoned shield and throwing it as hard as she can at the guard, knocking him into the other carriage and leaving him unconscious, she doesn’t remember _any_ of that, and the next thing she knows she’s wrenching her helmet off and yelling out to Bucky, desperate to get to him, to _reach_ him, to hold him and take away that horrible, terrified look in his eyes.

The railing’s crackling, it won’t last and she knows it, and she’s already edging out on the destroyed, jagged wall of the carriage, her heart pounding in her chest as she tries to reach him, and she has to, she _can’t_ let him fall, that’s just not an option, he _can’t fall_ —

She can hardly hear herself yelling over the wind for Bucky to take her hand, and if she can just _reach him_ , get to him and take his hand she can _save him_ , _she has to save him_ —and he’s trying, he’s _reaching_ for her, but the railing’s shaking, and it’s not going to last— _just a little further_ —

“No—NO! BUCKY!”

Steph can’t believe it; she _won’t_ believe it, refuses to accept that the screaming that’s filling her ears is Bucky’s. She won’t acknowledge the sight of him falling to his death, it can’t be, _he can’t be gone._

_Please don’t let him be gone._

She needs to move, needs to get off this hanging piece of wreckage, but all she can do is cling desperately to the railings as the snow and the wind howl around her, trying desperately to find a way around this, still working to figure out how she can _save_ him because it can’t happen this way, not when she’d worked so hard to save him, to keep him _safe_ now that she finally can, or _thought_ she could—

Even as she edges carefully back into the carriage, even as she stares at her empty hands, she can’t quite believe he’s gone, that’s it’s all _over_ just like that—the man she loves, her _husband_ , just… _gone._ She feels like she’s falling with him, feels like she’s plummeting with him; it’s as if every moment of their life together is just falling away and there’s _nothing_ she can do about it, no matter how much she wants to dive out after it. After _him_.

But he’s gone. He’s just— _gone._ And he’s not coming back. Not this time. He’s never coming back.

—

Peggy’s eyes are digging into her, forcing their way through all of Steph’s defences and seeing right into the heart of the reason her hand’s wrapped around a bottle in this bombed-out bar, why she’s got red eyes and the sniffles, why she hasn’t spoken a word to anyone beyond responding to orders.

And Steph knows she needs to pull herself together. She knows she needs to be what she was made to be, to get out there and finish the damn job, make Schmidt pay for this—but all she can see in her head is Bucky falling from that goddamn train that _she’d_ wanted to try and take over in the first place.

She sure as hell hasn’t slept since she got back. She hasn’t been able to close her eyes without seeing it. Thank god she’s got the serum to keep her going now.

Peggy’s still watching her and letting her words sink in, and Steph can see the _hope_ in her eyes that Steph still has it in her to fight—not because of what she is now, not because she thinks Steph needs to live up to the name of Captain America, but because she already knows Steph can. Whether she feels like she can or not.

And she really doesn’t, but…she will. She has to. For Bucky, if for nothing else. If not for everything Steph believes in, if not for every soldier out there waiting for her to make a call because they actually _believe_ in her, then she’ll do it for him. For everything he ever saw in her, right from the day they met.

—

Everyone’s looking at her like she’s insane, like the idea of walking right into Schmidt’s primary hideout is crazy, and—well, maybe it is. But she can do it. She knows she can. She can draw them all in close, get all their attention, and make them pay for it. Make them feel the weight of the lives they’ve taken. Every single one.

Including Bucky’s.

Dugan’s watching her with more concern than anything else, Steph can see it in his eyes. Like she’s going a little too far, being a little too reckless—and maybe she is. They haven’t tried anything like this, not without a plan, not without some sort of solid ground, and not without the manpower behind them to storm the facility, but—they can do it. Steph knows they can. Their men know how Hydra work; they’ve seen their tactics and fighting styles. They’ve _got_ the weapons; the Commandos have _used_ them. They can do this.

They have to. Steph needs to make all of this _stop_.

—

Schmidt’s holding something back, Steph knows it. She can _feel_ it, see it in the way he’s looking at her, hear it in the way he’s speaking to her—talking down to her because _how dare_ a woman try and take down his empire, destroy his hard work?

And all Steph can think of is not how demeaning this treatment is, but how self-absorbed one man can be to believe that what he’s doing is so important that it doesn’t matter how many lives he takes. That it doesn’t _matter_ to him who he hurts or who he steps on, so long as he reaches his goal. So long as he attains the power of the gods.

She’s never been more sure that she needs to stop this man than she is now.

As if on cue, Steph hears the grappling hooks latching onto the side of the facility outside, and she can see her men making their way across the valley to infiltrate the building. She can’t help but grin, because for once, she’s got this bastard _right_ where she wants him. And she’s not letting him get away, not this time.

—

Everything’s chaos when the soldiers get into the base, but it’s controlled. For their side at least, they’re swarming the corridors and taking out Hydra soldiers left, right, and centre. They almost seem like they’ve got this on hand—

Except Schmidt’s escaping.

Rushing into the ridiculously huge hangar, Steph doesn’t need to guess twice to know that Schmidt’s going to use the biggest jet there to escape—what the hell else could it be for? Without thinking, Steph starts running, making her way to the aircraft that’s _already moving, god damnit—_

She pushes anyway, urging herself to run faster even when she knows she can’t, desperate to catch up to the jet that’s already so far out of her reach. It’s all she can do to come to a stop, watching hopelessly as the jet moves further and further away, and all hope she ever had of bringing this ridiculous war to an end with it.

“Get in!”

Philips’ voice is rough around the edges, more so than usual, and if Steph had it in her right now she would grin. She knows that feeling, the rush of being in the middle of a battle, of fighting the good fight like you were _born_ for it, made for nothing else but fighting the wars and enduring the bloodshed and horror because you know it’s what you were born to do. She doesn’t hesitate, not for a moment, hauling herself into the car Philips and Peggy have commandeered, kneeling on the front seat as he heads through the hangar as far as the car will take them.

And thank god Schmidt just _needed_ a vehicle that was this powerful, because they’re catching up, the noise of the jet is growing louder and drowning out the roaring of the car engine, and all Steph can focus on is how much she needs to get on the damn aircraft, how much she needs to _stop_ him before it’s too late, how he needs to pay for what he’s done, for the lives he’s _taken_ —

Pushing the image of Bucky falling from the train out of her mind, Steph takes one last moment to glance at Peggy, who gives her a nod and a small smile, the slight reassurance Steph needs to cement her resolve into place before she takes the leap at the last possible moment, scrambling to hold on tight to the jet and haul herself in under the wheels before they can retract.

The noise dims considerably once she’s pulled herself inside, surrounded by nothing but the rushing sounds of the wind outside. And it takes the briefest moment for her to remember it’s not the same wind from the train, to tell herself it’s a different place—a different mission, one she can’t afford to fail.

One she _won’t_ fail, whatever the cost.

—

Schmidt’s gone. The cube’s gone. It’s all _gone_.

The controls of the jet are complicated, but Steph remembers enough from training and Stark’s rambling to at least be able to read the instruments, to interpret them and figure out that she can’t change the course. She can’t do anything about where it’s heading, about the destruction it could bring. This damn aircraft is heading straight for her _home_ , unless she does something. And quick.

Dropping into the pilot seat, Steph spots the radio transmitter and hardly needs to think as she speaks out, hoping someone’s close enough to hear her before she goes down, so someone can at least be sure that she’s done the job she needed to do, that all those hundreds of thousands of people are _safe_. Because that’s what she was made for—that’s why she’s here, that’s why the serum’s flowing through her veins every moment now.

And because it’s right. Because someone has to do it, and it’s gotta be Steph.

Jim picks up on the other end of the line, but Peggy’s close, interrupting him before he can get a sentence out, and Steph could almost smile. Almost. It’s nice to hear her voice, though, the last voice of reason Steph heard when she needed it most, and hopefully it will be a soothing sort of voice now, when Steph faces what she’s sure is her end.

And of course, Peggy’s already trying to change her mind, offering to get Howard, to find a way around this, but there’s no _time_ , and Steph knows it. She tells Peggy as much before she can get too far, taking a deep breath and saying the words she can’t avoid.

“Peggy, this is my choice.”

Silence follows, and all Steph can really do is take a deep breath and direct the plane down, altering its course to crash into the ice and trying very hard not to hear Bucky’s voice in the back of her head telling her not to do this.

Maybe— _maybe_ she’ll find him again, in whatever life there is after this one, maybe she’ll be that lucky—

Peggy’s voice echoes around her again, snapping her back to reality and the harsh fact that this is unavoidable, and Steph can hear it in the way Peggy’s voice cracks—Peggy who’s _always_ so stable, always so _strong_ and unbreakable, and she’s _crying_. It’s almost more than Steph can bear. Almost.

It’s Steph’s job, though, to do the impossible, to stop the unavoidable, and now—now, her job is all she has left.

And she’s going to make sure she does it right.

—

The ice is still cracking around her, the metal is still screeching as the jet settles in the freezing cold, and Steph’s _barely_ still conscious, dragging herself out of the seat and glancing around. There’s hardly any light, just the last of whatever miserable streams of sunlight were left, whatever could still wind its way into the buried aircraft.

Clutching her shield close to her chest, Steph staggers for a moment, dropping to her knees as everything begins to grow dark, the cold closing in on her like it used to before, when she was small and sick and impossible to deal with, and—god, she shouldn’t be hoping for Bucky to wake her up, to calm her down from this awful nightmare and curl around her, trying to warm her up, because he’s not going to, he _can’t._

This isn’t a dream; it’s not a nightmare—it’s real. Screeching, horrifying, _freezing cold_ reality, even through the suit, even through the serum, even though the knowledge that this is where she’s going to rest forever.

She can’t do it—and she doesn’t have to now. Everyone’s _safe_ , she finally stop—

She can finally see Bucky again.

Settling down on the cold, hard floor of the jet, Steph lets her eyes fall closed, lets herself succumb to the bone-deep chill surrounding her, to the darkness enveloping her, to everything she knew was coming, feeling a slight shred of safety and security in the knowledge that this is it—that she gets to rest. She gets to stop.

Her last thought, her _only_ thought as her mind grows darker, is that she gets to see Bucky again.


	3. Are We All To You Just Lost causes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph takes a deep breath, does her best to calm the writhing in her stomach, to ignore the memory swimming back into her mind from the night before Bucky had shipped out, back when she was still small and frail and had to watch her husband go off to war.  
> The night he took her to the fair, telling her they were going to the future.  
>  _So why isn’t he here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three, finally! Based on the events of Cap 2, without the events of Avengers - not because I don't love the movie, but because it doesn't really relate to the Stephbucky side of things  
> I decided to extend the chapters a little and I am going to work on a chapter of Sam and Steph tracking Bucky down, though it might take me some time considering I just picked up the SteveBucky BB ;;  
> This chapter was beta'ed by Jackie due to beta scheduling issues

There’s a faint noise in the background, one Steph almost can’t place until she swims back to reality where she can discern the sound of a radio playing somewhere in the room, broadcasting what sounds like a baseball game.

Cracking her eyes open slowly, Steph finds herself staring at a blank, white ceiling in a well-lit room. Tidy and simple, it looks almost like a hospital room— nothing she could afford, so what the _hell_ is she doing here—

As she pushes herself up, it starts coming back to her— the Hydra lair, Schmidt, the plane, the _crash_ — Shaking her head, Steph fixates on the radio playing over on the dresser, a typical appliance, something she’s more than used to seeing. How many nights did she and Bucky curl up together and listen to the broadcasts of whatever game was on—

Steph pushes that thought away immediately, a sour taste coming up in the back of her mouth, her stomach writhing unpleasantly. She doesn’t want to think about that— she _can’t_ —

The sound of the door startles her, turning her gaze to see a woman walk in, smartly dressed in uniform, polite and soft spoken, but Steph knows something’s wrong here. Never mind the fact that she shouldn’t be here, that she should’ve died in that jet— she shouldn’t be _here_ , because she’s not even sure where here is.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City.”

Well that much makes sense, but it still doesn’t quite fit. And she can’t put her finger on it, not until—

The game. She was _there_. She remembers it as plain as day, because she remembers how long Bucky had agonised over saving every penny he could just to get the tickets to begin with. He’d been so desperate, so _determined_ to take Steph to at least one game. And he had.

And it had been that one.

“Where am I, really?”

The woman starts to panic, and before Steph knows it two men are coming in, no doubt to subdue her.

Not happening. Not today.

They’ve hardly taken a step towards her before Steph’s got them both flying through the thin walls, rushing out after them into an entirely different room, out of their ridiculous display of the forties that they thought would make a good impression. And she doesn't know where she is, let alone where she’s going, but there’s a door, and Steph needs to get out of wherever she is. And judging by the code the agent is paging throughout the building, she needs to do it fast.

Not a damn thing looks even a little familiar as Steph makes her way through the corridors, heading down the first set of stairs she finds and heading out to the street before anyone can stop her—

_What the hell is this—_

This is— _nothing_ like the New York she knows, lights flashing everywhere, huge screens on every building, and so many people _rushing_ absolutely _everywhere_ ,absolutely absorbed by minuscule devices in their hands, horns beeping on cars from every direction—

Her first instinct? _Run_.

And she does, as fast as she can, the lights still going around her, the noises blurring into one, all of it surrounding her until she has to stop, turning around and around over and over, trying to take everything in and _make sense_ of it all, but she can’t, it’s too much.

A set of black cars surround her, blocking off any route to escape, so they think - not that they seem to realise she could leap over them if she really wanted to - but a man yells out to her, giving an order that’s too familiar, and yet doesn’t help at _all_.

“At ease, soldier.”

As if she could possibly be at ease right now, in the middle of whatever the hell this is.

The man explains slowly, easing her into it, offering her the truth to what she sees around her instead of a lie. She’s been asleep, frozen in the ice, preserved for seventy years on her own until they finally found her down there.

And they had to drag her back out, defrost her, offer her a life again. What sort of life can she have, seventy years later, when everyone she knows is gone, all of her friends— _Bucky’s_ gone, what good will it do for her to—

The man - Director Fury, as he’d introduced himself to be, head of SHIELD, whatever that is - steps a little closer, watching her carefully, giving her a moment to take it all in, to some how come to terms with the fact that she’s been thrown headfirst into a world that’s not even _remotely_ her own, from what she can see here.

“You alright?”

Steph takes a deep breath, does her best to calm the writhing in her stomach, to ignore the memory swimming back into her mind from the night before Bucky had shipped out, back when she was still small and frail and had to watch her husband go off to war.

The night he took her to the fair, telling her they were going to the future.

_So why isn’t he here._

—

It’s been two years since Steph was dragged out of the ice, thawed, and put to work, and— she’s still not sure she fits.

Sure, she’s adjusted to everything alright— it didn’t take as long as everyone thought it would. Once she set her mind to it, technology was easy as hell to pick up, and it’s so _useful_ , being able to find information at the drop of a hat is great, especially with catching up on everything she’s missed.

And working with SHIELD has given her another chance to be the soldier she’s always been, another chance to do what she’s always _wanted_ to do, even if it’s not— ideal. She knows SHIELD has its own secrets, they more than proved that during Loki’s return. But she can do good here, she knows she can.

Which is all she has left, really. Doing good is all she’s got left. She’s got no family, no friends— Howard died years ago, most of the Commandos too. All that’s left from anything Steph knew before is Peggy, and— even she’s not as she was. She’s still got the same fire, the same determination, but… age is catching up with her. One second they’ll be talking about how things were, and the next, Peggy doesn’t even remember Steph arriving.

And maybe it wouldn’t be so awful if somehow her wedding ring hadn’t made it through the years. If she didn’t wake up and put it on immediately, if she didn’t keep it around her neck under the suit _every goddamn day_ like a heavy reminder of everything she doesn’t have anymore, of everything she lost on that damn train, of _everything_ she so desperately wishes she could have back, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

But it did, and she does. She can’t help it, not when it made it through everything with her. Not when it’s all she has left of him.

Letting out a small sigh, Steph picks up the ring and slips it home onto her finger before pulling her hair back, ignoring the fact that it’s getting a little too long and unruly and she’s going to have to cut it if she wants it to tuck neatly under her suit like it’s supposed to. She’s been putting it off— for about two years, actually. Beyond simple trimming, which she handles herself anyway, she can’t seem to bring herself to cut it short.

Not when she knows it was something Bucky always loved so much.

With a small shake of her head, Steph pulls on a t-shirt, tugs her hair out of the neckline as always, and makes her way out of the apartment. There’s no knowing what SHIELD’s got in store for her today, and she needs to get started on her morning run some time soon.

—

The poor guy Steph’s been running laps around all morning is near collapsed under a tree, trying to catch his breath when she jogs up to him. She’s seen him around here before, he’s usually on a run around the same time as her, and she almost always does the same thing and he _hates_ it. In fact, she’s pretty sure if he hears her say “on your left” one more time—

“Need a medic?”

The guy laughs easily and looks up at her in disbelief, even if there’s some kind of recognition in his eyes— there always is now, considering so many people saw her face during the battle of New York. Not to mention the entire exhibit at the Smithsonian that’s got her face up everywhere.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Steph Barnes.”

“Yeah, I kinda put that together.”

Steph can’t help but chuckle as she holds out a hand, pulling Sam to his feet and being utterly nonplussed by the fact that he’s a little taller than her. The height deal doesn’t bother her so much, not when she used to be _so much shorter_ than she is now.

And it doesn’t seem to effect Sam, either. He’s not watching her with some sort of disappointed surprise, as though he’d been expecting more. If anything, he’s looking at her like he gets it. Like she’s actually a full-blown soldier, not just some poster girl for America.

Still, it comes as a surprise to her when Sam says something at the last minute, stopping her in her tracks, surprising her completely because no one else has _ever_ understood it—

“It’s your bed, isn’t it? Too soft. Spend all that time sleeping on the ground like a caveman— well, cavewoman, for you, and then you come home and it’s like—“

“Like you’re laying on a marshmallow. Feels like m’gonna sink through to the floor.”

And really, he’s the first person who _has_ understood, who’s looked at Steph and seen the truth of it. Who’s been there and seen the same horrors, even if it’s in another time. War’s still war, that’s one thing Steph learned fast.

Sam seems to be doing alright, though. Making a life for himself, helping people who didn’t seem to get out as clean as he did. Not that anyone ever really gets out clean, but— you make do, just like they have.

It almost seems normal, actually, talking to Sam about this. About what they’ve done, where they are now. About where they’re going, each in their own directions, however different.

It’s been a long time since it was this easy to talk to someone.

Steph’s phone goes off in her pocket, and she knows who it is before she fishes it out and reads the message – an alert for a new mission from Natasha. Of course.

“I gotta head off. Thanks for the run, if that’s what you call running.”

How long as it been since it was that easy to make a joke? Steph can’t help but smile, more to herself than anything, but it fits as Sam grins back at her incredulously.

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

They share a chuckle as Steph heads towards the curb, offering her a grin of her own.

“Oh, that’s how it is.”

—

Steph knows this mission isn’t what it seems to be even before Rumlow begins running through the details for her. And the more he talks, the more uneasy Steph feels, and it doesn’t get any goddamn easier when she finds out that it’s SHIELD’s ship down there.

Of _course_ it is.

“Calm down, Barnes, it’s not as complicated as you think.”

“No, it’s probably much more complicated than I think.”

Natasha barely suppresses a roll of her eyes as Steph heads towards the back of the jet, securing a channel for STRIKE to communicate and slipping her helmet on, tucking her hair away under the collar of the suit - god, she should _really_ cut it shorter, this is ridiculous.As she does, she reminds herself sternly that any personal gripes she has with this mission, with the fact that it’s SHIELD’s own ship, that _Sitwell_ of all people is on that damn thing, are all going to have to wait until they’ve got those hostages in hand, until the ship is back under the right control.

If that’s what SHIELD really is right now.

—

It’s just one thing after another after _another_ in this damn place, and Steph’s beginning to wonder if SHIELD was even the right goddamn choice. And this isn’t the first time she’s found herself marching towards Fury’s office in complete and utter frustration, her head full of images of finding Natasha at that damn computer, stealing who knows what files for whatever damn reason Fury has. If he even has one, that is.

And if it weren’t for Peggy and Howard, if it weren’t for the fact that this whole damn _place_ was built on their hard work, Steph would turn tail and leave, find another way to do some good in this world. But she can’t, not after everything, not with all she owes them. And she can do good work here, from the inside, if she tries. She can make things better from the inside.

At least, she can try - if they ever give her a chance.

—

Whenever everything’s too much, whenever things just don’t make sense, whenever Steph needs to _remember_ , she visits the exhibit. She visits her past, the only thing that seems to make any sense anymore.

And considering the past that’s on display was a war that ravaged the entire world, she’s not entirely sure that should be helping.

Still, the display is— honest, it’s simple, it’s _everything_ she’d hoped people would see about their part in the war. In the Howling Commandos, in the work they did, in the risks they took. And it was more than she _ever_ did, marching into Hydra factories and battles with nothing but Steph’s words and their own guns and guts. No serum to keep them going, no special strength or speed, just everything they were already made of.

They deserve to be here more than anyone.

But – it’s _her_ photos up all over the place, on display for everyone to see the world’s greatest soldier in action.

And to see her husband, right by her side.

Steph feels something pinch in her chest when she turns to Bucky’s display, the recorded voice-over echoing around her, the voices of the other patrons dimming to a dull hum as everything zeros in on him, on the perfect image of his face, recreated from one of the old films or photos they snapped between missions. Of the short biography up on the display, carefully etched into the glass to share his story, telling about his mother, about his life, about how he and Steph were in love before they even knew what love _was_.

About how he was lost, how he was taken away from this world, from _Steph_ before she even knew what was going on. How she failed the man she loved, the man she’d burst behind enemy lines to save.

Even after all this time, after adapting to _everything_ she found impossible at first, Steph wishes he was here. She could use his help, use his voice in her ear reminding her to do what’s _right_ , not what seems easiest. And she knows he would remind her of the time he had to patch up her busted eyebrow at school because she got in the way of a bully who wanted some kid’s lunch money and hit her before he even realised she was in the way. About how the nurse had spent a half hour telling her girls aren’t supposed to be reckless, girls don’t _get into fights_ , and didn’t seem to understand that Steph didn’t care. That she knew she’d done the right thing.

Just as she knows she has to now.

—

Arriving just in time to hear the tail end of Sam’s group session at the VA, Steph can’t help but look out over the room full of soldiers, of people struggling to adjust back to a normal life just like she had at first too, and she can’t help but feel like this is exactly where Sam fits. Whether he knows it or not, he’s doing his own good here. She can see the effect of his words as he speaks, the way it seems to lift some of the weight off their shoulders, makes them draw up just that little bit taller.

And sure, it does help, knowing you’re not the only one. Knowing there are other people who are going just what you’re going through.

Even for Steph, and— sure, it’s not _exactly_ the same, but war is war. The reasons, the countries, the weapons they use now, none of that matters. They’re all fighting for the same things, even decades apart. And knowing that— it definitely makes a difference, especially when all the good she thought she was doing might all be for nothing.

The group wraps up, everyone filing out of the room steadily, and Steph hangs back a little, nodding politely at people here and there when they catch her eye, sharing a small smile when someone recognises her and has the decency not to make a scene, to understand that she’s a soldier, just like they are.

“That was pretty intense in there.”

“Yeah, what can I say. We’ve all got the same things hanging over our head. Guilt. Regret.”

Steph watching him carefully, and she doesn’t even need to ask, she can see it in his eyes. There’s always something that switches over, that’s never really the same when you’ve lost someone, when you’ve watched them go, when you’ve spent hours going over every possible scenario, trying to figure out if there had been some way to change what happened.

“You lose someone?”

Sam doesn’t have to answer, Steph wouldn’t be insulted if he didn’t. It’s not easy to think about, let alone talk about; she’s not sure how she’d manage it if anyone asked her about Bucky, these days.

He does, though, and Steph appreciates it to no end.

“My wingman, Riley.”

There’s a sad rush of affection in Sam’s voice as he explains what happened, tells Steph about the night op, same sort of deal they always did, and it hits so close to home for her, she understands it so well, understands that there’s _nothing_ you can do to change it, even as the apology slips through her lips, genuine and honest.

“Couldn’t do anything. It was like I was up there just to _watch_.”

There’s a feeling Steph understands all too well.

Still, he seems happy doing what he’s doing, like he’s found his place in the world, and he doesn’t deny it, the smile coming back onto his face, clear in his voice again, the same Sam she’d met the other day. 

“You thinking of getting out?”

“No— maybe. I don’t know. The truth is, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I did.”

Especially when this, what she does, being a soldier, it’s all she has left anymore, all she knows she can do.

“Ultimate fighting?”

For some reason, Steph can’t say she’s surprised. Sam sure seems the type to have a joke on the tip of his tongue, ready whenever it seems like he needs it, and she can’t help but be grateful. Maybe that’s what makes him so easy to talk to.

“Listen, you could do whatever you wanted to do. What makes you happy?”

And that’s the problem, that’s what it all comes down to.Because at the end of the day, all she knows she can do, all she knows she _wants_ to do anymore is to be a soldier. Because the only other thing she had, the plans and the ideas and the _one man_ who always made her happy are gone.

“I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s about time she tried harder to figure that out.

—

Apparently, in Steph’s new life, when it rains, it goddamn _pours_. One second she’s trying to piece together why Fury seemed to be half-dead in her apartment, and the next he’s _bleeding out_ right in front of her, and her _neighbour_ is calling for backup, and none of them even know who the hell shot through Steph’s wall and hit SHIELD’s director when no one knew he was there to begin with.

She hardly has time to tell Kate— Agent 13, apparently— that she’s in pursuit before she’s out the window, her mind racing as she speeds through the building, chasing the figure she’d only seen for a split second. Whoever it is, they’re _fast_ , as fast as she is, and she wills herself to push on faster, bursting through doors without care of their condition, the shield making quick work of them without even needing to think about it. The damage can be repaired later; this is much more important.

Taking a chance and trusting her gut, Steph veers around a corner and puts on an extra burst of speed, holding the shield up to deal with the window she speeds straight through, and without even needing to think about it she hurls the shield at the figure just ahead of her, finally getting a good look for the first time and—

He catches the shield with a gleaming metal arm that mechanically whirs and whines as it snaps out, and Steph has all of a second to take in as much detail as she can, trying to commit the image to memory. He’s tall, a little taller than her, with long, tangled hair and dark eyes, carefully camouflaged with the sort of paint used by snipers, she’s noticed through experience. She can’t see his face— a mask of some kind is obstructing the view. It doesn’t matter, though. That arm is something she’s _never_ seen before, and will likely never see again, not on anyone else.

And he caught her shield. A throw that had all her strength behind it, that should have knocked him out cold, and he caught it.

_Who the hell is he?_

The figure moves again, as quickly as she would, and throws the shield back with an unnatural force that takes her by surprise, a small grunt leaving her as she catches the shield steady in her hands, and when she looks up again the man’s gone, as though he’d never been there to begin with.

She moves to the edge of the building, but instinctively, she already knows the man’s disappeared. And her mind is already running too fast, trying to file away as much of his appearance as she can, memorising it for later use, trying not to be too alarmed at the idea that somehow, someone’s created something that could make that man as quick as her, and that arm— that’s as strong as she is.

Whoever he is, he’s a danger. She’s gotta find him. Fast.

—

The downpour soon becomes a hurricane — one second Natasha’s swinging away from her and striding down the hallway at the hospital, and the next the STRIKE team is escorting her back to SHIELD, and Steph’s sure whatever’s coming next isn’t going to be good.

Not after Fury’s last words, his pained warning, the flash drive pressed insistently into her hand while he could still focus. Not after seeing the man on the roof, the man with the metal arm, with strength and speed to match her own, with skills so well-honed he tracked down and killed SHIELD’s director himself.

And for Fury to insist SHIELD was compromised, that she can’t trust _anyone_ — that doesn’t bode well, not for Steph. She’s already struggling to figure out just who she can trust and who’s only telling her the truths she wants to hear, or the truth they think she should be hearing.

Maybe it’s about time she took a break from SHIELD. For some reason, she feels she may have some more luck figuring things out without them looming over her. Because she knows that whatever she’s being escorted back to the Triskelion for isn’t going to be good.

—

Steph can’t say she’s surprised when Brock goes down like the rest of the men in the elevator, not after the look Pierce had given her on her way out. She only stayed with SHIELD because of Peggy, and— well, she’d be ashamed of what they’ve become, if this is how they treat their people. If this is how they treat their agents, and ignore the real threats.

She’s glad she never really trusted them, not as much as some have.

The doors slide open again, and of course Pierce is going all out— a team of STRIKE support officers are headed her way, yelling for her to put the shield down, surrender. Clearly, they don’t realise “surrender” isn’t exactly a word she understands.

Before they can shoot, Steph strikes the elevator cable with the shield, snapping it clean off and letting the elevator drop a few floors before the emergency breaks kick in, buying her a little time. Enough, hopefully, to escape via another floor—

Sliding the doors open, Steph’s struck with the sight of another set of agents heading her way.

Okay.Maybe not.

Pushing the door shut again, Steph glances around, weighting up her options. She could fight her way out, but they’ll just send in more agents, and as good as she is, they’d overpower her with sheer force of numbers and limited mobility in the hallway.

Taking a deep breath, Steph peers out of the elevator, down into the lobby. It’s her only way out.

And it’s going to _hurt_.

Bracing herself, she takes a step back, tightening her grip on the shield, before launching through the reinforced glass, trying to spread out, slow her descent, but— there’s not enough time, and she has to curl for the impact, letting the shield shatter through the glass and take in the impact as she hits the floor with an awful crash.

_Jesus fucking—_

Steph can’t help but groan a little as she tries to push herself up, willing the pain in her side away. As much as the shield absorbs impact, it still fucking _hurts_ to drop that many stories, reinforced body or not.

_Get up, Stephanie—_

Shaking her head, she pushes herself up and heads for the garage. She’s gotta get out of here, out of sight, get back to that flash drive and plan her next move before it’s too late.

—

There has to be a lie in Natasha’s eyes somewhere, there _has to be_. Natasha’s not known for telling the truth, not if it doesn’t suit her, and Steph can’t imagine why it would suit her this time.

But the more Steph watches her, the more she can’t spot any deception, nothing beyond the slight hint of mourning she’s still trying to mask, as though Steph didn’t already see the tears when Fury had died right in front of them.

For once, the woman’s telling the truth. And she has information Steph knows she needs.

“They call him the Winter Soldier.”

The Winter Soldier. A _myth_ , a story Steph’s heard of, seen mention of when she’s been catching up on her history. Such an assassin can’t exist, not without getting caught, not after so long.Not to mention the man on the roof she’d chased down had been so young, no older than thirty at the most. The math doesn’t add up, not when he’s supposedly been doing this for fifty years.

The description matches, though. And Steph should know better than anyone that sometimes the math doesn’t need to add up.

Besides, Natasha’s freely offering her the flash drive, and as far as Steph can see, she’s still telling the truth. Or some form of it, at least.

And right now, that’s enough.

—

All Steph wants to do is lean against the hot concrete that’s collapsed around them and sleep, just for a moment. Rest her eyes, take a minute to pull herself together.

She doesn’t have a minute, though. Missiles mean SHIELD aren’t far behind, and she’s gotta get Natasha out of here.

Taking a deep breath, Steph pushes against the hard, heavy concrete with all she’s got, shoving it out of the way as quickly as she can. A touch of light creaks in, a crack that grows wider as she shifts more of the rubble, making a gap out to the open air. The remains of the building surround her, leftover flames crackling nearby as Steph glances around, assessing the worst of it as she tries to pull Natasha up.

She’s out cold though, and Steph’s running out of time.

Hooking her shield more securely on her arm, Steph hooks both arms around Natasha carefully, heaving her up and stepping out into the open— to see lights, man-made, approaching fast.

SHIELD, of course.

She wastes all of a second watching them before she’s moving.

—

Washing the dirt and the dust from the explosion off her hands, Steph can’t help but be grateful a hundred times over that Sam let them in to begin with. They hardly even _know_ each other, they’re barely even friends, and somehow he had no qualms with letting her and Natasha in when they turned up at his door, stuck with nowhere else to go. Not when Steph’s apartment is bugged and no doubt under watch, and god knows what state Natasha’s place is in, wherever she happens to be living now.

For the time being, though, they have a refuge, somewhere to hide out, recover, and make a new plan.

Natasha seems to be in shock, curled up close on the bed, nervously fidgeting with her hair, and Steph’s not sure she’s aware of it, but the walls she holds up so high is starting to crack, something coming through that Steph couldn’t quite see before.

That’s what happens, though. When you’ve seen someone at their worst, when you fight for each other’s lives like that, there are some things you just can’t hide anymore.

“You alright?”

Even Natasha’s nod lacks conviction, and Steph can’t help but wonder just what’s getting to her the most. It’s been rough, she knows better than anyone; she’s the one who assaulted her primary team and disappeared before SHIELD could have a chance to arrest her. But they’re making progress, they’re moving. They can figure it out, the two of them. They’re doing alright so far.

Except Natasha doesn’t seem to believe it, and a little gentle nudging from Steph confirms it. Confirms that she’s not even sure what she’s fighting for.

“When I first joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight. But I guess I just traded the KGB for Hydra.”

It’s not that simple, and they both know it, logically. But Steph can’t even begin to imagine how that feels, what it’s like to turn around from such a dark side of the world and try and do some good, only to find out you’ve been doing it all for the wrong reasons, in the end. Like it was all pointless to begin with.

And having your world turned upside down like that? Everything you believed in suddenly being a lie? Steph can understand that, now that she knows Hydra’s still alive and kicking.

Natasha’s still watching her, even as Steph speaks, makes a quiet joke between them that catches Natasha off-guard, almost drawing out a smile, but everything’s still to fresh, too unprocessed for that just yet.

“I owe you.”

Like Steph hasn’t heard it before, like she hasn’t hushed the same murmured words from countless soldiers who couldn’t believe Captain America bothered to save their small, insignificant life. Like every single person she comes across isn’t worth saving. Like Natasha wasn’t worth saving.

And even as Steph shakes her head, Natasha continues unconvinced.

“If it was the other way around, and it was down to me to save your life, now you be honest with me— would you trust me to do it?”

It takes Steph a split second to answer, the truth leaving her lips before she can even consider otherwise.

“I would now.”

Natasha hadn’t expected that, surprise written all over her face, and Steph can’t help but wonder just how little she’s come across that sort of honesty in her life.

Steph makes a mental note to be as honest with her as possible. She deserves that from her friends, after all.

—

It feels good, working on some kind of plan, even when they hit a wall they’re not sure how to climb. They have a target, information they need to extract from said target. They just need a way to get to that target without being caught.

Which is difficult for SHIELD’s most wanted.

Sam’s listening, though, and he has an answer before they even start searching, dropping a file and a photo on the table in front of Steph and crossing his arms, waiting for the inevitable questions. And clearly it’s something Natasha’s familiar with, already asking questions, but all Steph sees is the other man in the photo with Sam, the way Sam’s looking at him, the way they seemed tied together.

“Is that Riley?”

She knows the answer before Sam nods, but Natasha’s already barreling on with another question, prompting Sam to nudge the file towards them.

“We used these.”

Steph opens the file, curious, and what she sees blows her mind, and she can’t quite wrap her head around it for a moment, glancing up at Sam with a small grin.

“I thought you said you were a pilot.”

Sam’s own grin matches hers, of course.

“I never said pilot.”

And it’s tempting, _so_ tempting to have that little bit of extra support, the additional man-power that would make this whole mess that little bit easier to approach, but— Steph can’t do it, she can’t drag someone else into this mess she’s landed herself in. Not when she glances down at the picture again, looking at Sam and Riley and how close they were. Seeing everything Sam lost in the blink of an eye, every reason he finally managed to get out, to build a life for himself.

“I can’t ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason.”

“Captain America needs my help, no better reason to get back in.”

As much as she wants to argue, there’s something in the way he says it, in the finality, the uncontrollable faith he has in her when he’s known her for next to no time at all. And it’s not just in who she is, not in the shield and the flag and what she wears, but in _her_ , she can see it in his eyes, in the honesty written all over his face. And she knows she has no right to tell him not to believe in whatever it is he choses to believe in.

She can’t help but feel glad she came across him, even if it was entirely by chance.

—

Everything’s a blur around her as Steph speeds towards her target, pushing harder and harder to get there before he can take the shot because _dammit_ Natasha is _not_ giving her life for this, not when this was her mission, her task. Not when it was her call that landed them here, fighting a force that’s more than they’d anticipated.

And she gets there just in the nick of time, but he sees her, launching a hit right at her, and she _feels_ the attack through the shield, feels the force behind it, the strength to match her own.

What the _hell_ is this guy—

He moves fast, kicking her away and launching his attack again, shooting at her time after time until she gets a chance to disarm him, taking the opportunity when his bullets run out to kick the gun out of his grip. And he has another one, he’s a goddamn walking armory or something, but she gets rid of the next piece too after a couple of shots.

He’s moving again, though, and before Steph knows it he’s snatching the shield out of her hand, sending her on a flip she barely catches herself on before he hits her away again, pausing for a moment while Steph regains her footing, mind already racing through his motions, his movements, looking for a weakness, something she can use.

The Soldier is ready, though, throwing the shield as fast as Steph would herself, and she narrowly dodges it, hearing it bury into the side of a nearby van as she approaches him, already eyeing the knife he’s got in his hand. In anyone else’s control, it would be child’s play. But this man moves fast, as swift as she can, and he’s strong, especially with that arm. One wrong move, and she’s gone.

And he knows it, too, pushing hard and aiming for fatal wounds, barely blocked by Steph and she can’t remember the last time she needed to move this fast, the last time she didn’t push herself this hard just to make a mission easier. This is the first time since— since _Schmidt_ that there’s someone on par with her, and it’s alarming to say the least.

He’s landing hits, but not as many as he’s taking— the arm makes him vulnerable, he relies on it more than he should, on it’s durability, it’s no doubt everlasting strength, but it leaves him open, and Steph makes the most of the precious time it gives her, landing a kick in the centre of his chest when he’s not expecting it, pushing him back into the van.

Even as he takes more hits, though, he’s on the move, slashing with precision and attacking with deadly force, focused and tuned to his goal, and even as Steph manages to slam him to the ground he’s back on his feet, metal fingers coming to grip at her throat for a moment before he throws her over the hood of the van, wasting no time in coming to deliver a final blow she narrowly misses.

He strikes again, and again, blunt force striking her side, bruising her ribs and she hardly feels it, the serum numbing what pain springs up so she can focus on the incoming attack, blocking the stab and barely twitching out of the way as the metal arm whirrs, forcing the knife into the side of the van instead.

She ducks, away from him, taking those precious moments to get her shield back in her hand, and it seems to work until he switches hands, the knife plus the arm’s speed more than dangerous.

Instinct kicks in, the shield switching arms, and Steph makes a snap decision, reaching for that lethal arm with a vice-like grip and digging the edge of the shield into it, watching it break under her strength and taking the moment of shock to land another hit to his face, to flip him back, away from her.

And she feels the mask slip under her grip, falling onto the road between them as he gets to his feet, turning back to face her—

Everything stops.

_No_ — No _—_

“Bucky?”

He’s looking right _through_ her, like she’s not even there— like she’s _nothing_ , but she couldn’t mistake that face, those eyes— dead and lifeless, dull, _nothing_ like what they should be, and she doesn’t want to think about what caused that, what did this to him, what’s making him seem like he doesn’t know her—

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

It’s even his _voice_ , and Steph feels the ground disappear from under her feet, feels her heart shattering as she falls because _he doesn’t know her_ , he doesn’t even know _himself_ , but it’s him, _she knows it’s him, how can he not know her_ —

She needs to move, he’s about to shoot her, but she can’t— she _can’t_ —

Sam knocks him off-balance, flying in out of nowhere, and she raises the shield on instinct more than anything, already too late, she knows. By the time she looks up again, Bucky looks— _scared_ , like this is all wrong and it _is_ , nothing is right here, _not a goddamn thing—_

Natasha shoots from behind them, using Bucky’s own weapon against him, and by the time the smoke clears he’s gone like he wasn’t even there, disappeared like he had nothing to stay for, like his _wife_ wasn’t standing _right in front of him_ —

And SHIELD are swarming in— though it’s the STRIKE team, so it’s Hydra come to clean up the mess, and Steph barely even notices when they surround her, ordering her to drop the shield. It slips out of her grasp anyway, clattering to the ground as she drops to her knees, still lost in her own world, a world where nothing matters, where nothing even _exists_ anymore besides needing to find him, to save him, to bring him home and help him remember because he _has to remember_.

—

Steph doesn’t remember moving, doesn’t remember them shackling her in some sort of heavy-duty restraints, doesn’t even remember getting into the van. All she can see is his face, blank and broken and everything it should _never be_ , _how did this happen to him—_

“It was him. He looked right at me, like he didn’t even _know me—_ “

Her voice breaks, and she pauses to take a breath, to calm herself down. She can’t fall apart, not like this, not here—

“How’s that even possible, it was like seventy years ago—“

Of course, Sam’s the voice of reason— except—

“Zola— Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ’43, Zola experimented on him—“

The very place Steph stormed to drag him out of, to _save him_ , and all it did was lead him _here_ —

“Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall… He must’ve found him and—“

“None of that’s your fault, Steph—“

Natasha’s still got the drop on her, even when she’s bleeding heavily and probably riding to her death.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”

When everyone was gone, when her family was lost, when there was _nothing_ left for her—

Sam asks the guards to put pressure on Natasha’s wound, and Steph looks up for a moment to note she’s bleeding fast, she should’ve noticed it sooner, formed some kind of plan, _something_ —

But one of the guards takes out the other, taking them all by surprise before tugging off their helmet—

“Damn thing was squeezing my brain—“

Maria Hill. What the hell is _she_ doing here?

—

Steph still can’t quite wrap her head around the fact that Fury’s _alive_ and in one piece, for the most part. Beaten and bruised and broken in a few places, but alive and kicking, apparently, already putting together a plan to stop the Insight helicarriers from launching before they can do their damage.

Still, Steph’s calling the shots, making the decisions so she knows this will be done for good. And everyone seems to have faith in her, trusts her to make the right call, even if it means bringing down the country’s biggest intelligence agency in the process. It has to be done, though. SHIELD and Hydra have cost too many people too much already.

Like Bucky.

Even out here, looking out off the dam, Steph can still remember their wedding night, curled up together under the sheets in a bed that seemed just the right size for them. Neither of them could sleep, not with Bucky’s deployment so close, and she’d been a wreck, nervous and upset and _scared to death_ , fidgeting with her new wedding ring like it was all she had to hold onto.

Probably because soon, it would be all she’d have to hold onto, anymore.

She can still remember the way Bucky’d taken her hand in his, stilling her movements and tangling their fingers together, curling around her like he wanted to shield her from everything, protect her from the world, from the possibility that he might not come home.

_I promised you, sweetheart. I promised I’d come home._

He’d said it again and again, pressing the words against her skin, whispering them into her hair, hoping to imprint them onto her somewhere, _anywhere_ so she might believe him.

_I made a vow, remember? I’m with you, till the end of the line._

Steph remembers wishing she’d had a little extra cash, she would’ve gotten it engraved on their rings before he’d left. Because she knew she’d never forget those words, never forget how they sound when he’d said it loud and clear, when he’d promised her he’d come home, when he’d repeated the line from his vows over and over to give her some kind of hope.

She remembers how scared she was that he’d never come home to her. That she’d never see him again. That she’d lose him to that war.

And she had, and it had been her fault. Her fault he fell, her fault he was taken away, had who knows what to him. Her fault he’s— _this_ , some sort of machine for whoever it is that’s got him on a goddamn leash, whoever’s made him some blank slate with no memories, no _nothing_.

He’d always protected her, for so many years. And this is how she repays him.

No. She’s gotta find him. She’s gotta make him remember. No matter the cost. She owes him that much, at least.

—

It feels like home, being in her old uniform again, and it still fits like a glove. It’ll offer her some protection at least, and it’ll hold the same meaning it always held. That Captain America isn’t backing down, that she’s going to fight until her last breath for what’s real and what’s _right_.

And maybe, _maybe_ , if Bucky’s there, the suit will help break into his memories. Maybe it’ll give him something to hold onto.

—

Of course he’s there, waiting for her in front of the control panel on the last helicarrier, the only one left. Staring at her with a blank face, like she’s nothing, like she’s hardly even there.

But she has to try and reach him. He’s in there somewhere, he _has_ to be.

“People’re gonna die, Buck. I can’t let that happen.”

And it kills her, having to say this to him. Not just because he should understand that, not just because he _would_ if he was himself, but because she knows, in that moment, that she still will do whatever she has to do to get this job done.

She _has to_.

He doesn’t react, doesn’t even _move_.It’s like she didn’t even speak.

“ _Please don’t make me do this_.”

Still, his eyes remain blank, void of all emotion, of anything that would resemble the man she loves. Letting out a deep breath, Steph steels herself, preparing for what’s coming. 

For what needs to be done.

She attacks first, launching the shield at him and he’s quick as always, blocking it with the arm - newly repaired - and shooting at her a moment after she’d caught the shield again, barely giving her a chance to block what should be fatal shots.

He’s more focused on his goal, though, more zeroed in on killing her than she is on hurting him, and as she gets closer a bullet grazes her side. She pushes through, though, as always, recovering before he’d expected, slamming the shield directly against him to throw him back.

He’s got another knife again, and he’s brutal this time, launching another efficient, lethal attack, and Steph pushes harder, blocking his attacks and starting her own, pushing him back long enough to get to the control panel, punch in the code to get her access to the targeting blades.

Bucky won’t give her enough time, though, barreling toward her again and she barely manages to block him this time, and she can hear the arm whirring again, she’s only got a moment to—

She manages to disarm him, throwing the knife away and launching a kick at his chest, taking those brief seconds to yank one of the targeting blades out, fumbling with her pouch to take out the replacement before he can get to her.

He’s fast, though, faster than he’d ever been, pushing her away from the navigation deck, attacking hard and fast but Steph pushes even harder, landing her own hits and pushing him against the railings, only just managing to brace herself when Bucky rushes forward and drives them both off the walkway and onto a platform just below.

The replacement circuit bounces out of her hand, though, slipping a little further past Bucky. 

_Shit—_

They both launch toward the each other, hitting hard and harder to try and get their jobs done, and Bucky makes the most of his size and flips her towards the end of the platform. The brief moment Steph has goes to grabbing the replacement blade again, but Bucky’s right there, knocking it away and striking hard and barely flinching when Steph hits harder, pushing him down onto the glass floor of at the very bottom of the helicarrier.

Steph wastes no time leaping after him, desperate to get to the replacement blade – their last hope - before he can.

She rushes for it, and she’s _so damn close_ when something hits her hard in her back, the impact enough to knock her over and she barely has time to pick the shield up again before Bucky’s shooting at her. She has all of a millisecond between his next shot to disarm him, and she makes the most of it, throwing the shield true to knock the gun out of his hand.

God knows where all his knives are coming from, though, because Bucky launches a fresh attack, strong and determined and _wild_ , and she does her best to block, but that arm is relentless, and the attack she’d managed to deflect earlier lands true when the arm pushes forward.

Sharp pain explodes in her right shoulder as the knife digs in deep, and Steph forces herself not to think about who just _stabbed her in the shoulder_ , barely catching herself as Bucky tosses her away.

Tugging the knife out of her shoulder, Steph turns to see Bucky grabbing for the circuit, and she can’t— _she can’t fail—_

Throwing herself at him, Steph grabs his arm, her other hand wrapping around his throat and gripping tight, hoisting him into the air as she ignores the scream of pain he lets out, ignores that _she’s hurting him_ , slamming him into the ground and locking his right arm under hers, urging him to drop the chip, almost _begging_ him to—

She pushes harder, twisting cruelly and swallowing the awful wrench in her heart as she hears Bucky’s shoulder dislocate with a _pop_ , blocking out the strangled scream that follows, but he _still_ doesn’t let the damn thing go.

Dropping to the floor, she wrenches him up, hooking an arm over his throat and pressing down hard, relentless, hoping to god he lets the damn thing go before she has to do something she regrets _more_. And he’s grasping at her with his other arm, and it’s strong, but she _can’t—_ grabbing onto it, she manages to pull it down, hooking it under her leg and pressing down on his throat harder, waiting, ignoring the voice in her head screaming at her, telling her to stop hurting him, _he’s hurt enough and it’s all your fault, stop making it worse—_

The targeting blade clatters to the ground, and Bucky falls limp on top of her, unconscious, and she pushes him aside carefully and grabs the replacement, already headed for the navigation panel again.

She’s halfway up the platform when a shot rings out, a bullet slicing into her thigh and it _hurts like hell,_ but she has to push, has to keep going—

Dragging herself to her feet, she leaps for an overhead bar, using it to haul herself up and climb, crying out when another shot hits. She pushes through, though, she has to, swinging up onto the walkway and forcing herself up once more, climbing over to the navigation panel and tugging the replacement blade out of her pouch—

A third shot rings out, burying deep into her abdomen and it’s too much, the pain overtaking her as she drops, gasping for air, and she’s _running out of time,_ Hydra’s going to fire any goddamn moment—

_Get up, Barnes—_

It takes everything she’s got to pull herself up, reaching out with the circuit in hand, and she knows she has _seconds_ to reach it—

The targeting blade locks into place, _just_ in time. She radios the affirmative to Maria, dropping to the floor of the walkway again and pressing down on her abdomen, trying to staunch the bleeding, but when Maria tells her to get out of the helicarrier Steph realizes that there’s _no way_ she can—

“Fire now.”

“But Steph—“

“Do it!”

Maria knows what she’s doing, knows what’s at stake if they waste too much time, and Steph’s not surprised to hear the guns moving, targeting systems shifting to aim for the other two helicarriers, as the other two are no doubt doing themselves.

Within seconds, they fire, the helicarriers bringing each other down, bringing Hydra and SHIELD down with them once and for all.

Everything shivers and twists around her, metal shredding and shaking apart, and a terrified scream rings out from below. Hauling herself up again, Steph peers down to see Bucky trapped under a beam, one even too heavy for him to lift, especially with one arm dislocated.

Swallowing her guilt, Steph launches herself over the railing, trying desperately to ignore the pain still shooting through her wounds as she does, making her way down to him. She’s saved everyone else, done what she had to do.

Now, she’s going to save Bucky. Like she should have all those years ago.

Her shield isn’t far away so she grabs that too, hitching it onto her arm as she staggers over, and Bucky looks— scared, as she approaches, terrified of the idea that she’s down here to kill him, like she ever possibly could—

Gritting her teeth, Steph pushes herself up to grip the beam, hearing it creak as she lifts it slowly, holding it up just long enough for Bucky to drag himself out before dropping it again, gasping for air like she used to when she was a kid, when she was still sick.

Back then, Bucky would hold her closer, rub her back and help her pull herself together.

Now, he rounds on her again, and there’s still no trace of recognition in his eyes.

“You know me—“

Pushing herself up, Steph faces him head on, letting him take everything in and hoping to god something will click—

“No I don’t!”

He hits her again, hard, metal hitting metal as the shield takes the impact, but Steph still staggers, barely catching herself to straighten up again.

“Bucky— you’ve known me your whole life—“

He hits again, and Steph doesn’t bother to block it, pain exploding in her head as he hits her, throwing her down again. The helicarrier is falling apart around them, and maybe it’s the sound of its twisting metal but it feels like Steph’s _whole world_ is shattering.

She’s got nothing else to lose.

“Your _name_ — is James Buchanan Barnes—“

“SHUT UP!”

He’s _screaming_ as though he’s in agony, as though she’s still hurting him when she’s trying so hard to _help_ him, to help him remember who he is, who _she_ is. He hits again, and blocking is pointless, the hit tossing her down once more.

Staggering to her feet, Steph pushes off her helmet, her hair falling over her shoulders as she turns to face Bucky again.

“I’m not going to fight you.”

The shield slips from her hand, the one defense she’s always held close, always relied on when nothing else worked, and falls through a gap in the glass, plummeting into the river below them, but she doesn’t care. 

It doesn’t matter anymore.

_This_ is – this _was_ all that mattered.

“You’re my _husband_.”

Please— _please, let this work—_

Bucky launches himself at her again, growling like a terrified animal, knocking her over and pushing himself up above her, fury and fear and rage in his eyes.

“ _You’re my mission_ —“

It doesn’t matter anymore, each hit doesn’t matter, the pain exploding in her eye, in her head, the broken bones and agony, none of it matters because _he doesn’t remember her_ , and it’s all her fault, _she caused this_ because she couldn’t protect him. Years of Bucky keeping her safe, taking care of her and looking out for her when she was sick or exhausted, everything he did for her, and she couldn’t even save him from this.

She couldn’t even save him from _anything_.

He pauses for a moment, staring down at her, his fist raised, and Steph speaks again, somehow, through the pain and the haze, one last-ditch attempt.

“Then finish it. ‘Cause I made a vow, too— I’m with you, till the end of the line.”

And Bucky just— stares, like the spell’s broken, lost and confused, and Steph doesn’t know what else she can do, how else to make him remember—

The beam supporting her breaks, and she doesn’t have time to grab onto anything, falling from the helicarrier and fading away as she goes, the world going dark around her before she even hits the water.

—

Everything’s cold, colder than it has been for a long time, and Steph’s dimly aware of the fact that she’s soaking wet, moving through water— how, though, she’s not moving, her arms and legs dead weight, so what’s—

Her body drops onto the shore, aching to her very bones, and it takes a world of effort to open her eyes, to peer up at whoever dragged her here, whoever dropped her here, and— it can’t be, that’s not possible, he didn’t _remember_ —

Bucky’s staring down at her, soaking wet, holding his arm against his chest like he can’t move it— and he probably can’t, she dimly remembers, not after what she’d done. And he’s just staring at her, just watching like he’s not sure what he’s doing here, not sure what to do _next_ , and maybe he’s not.

And all Steph can think of is how much she wishes she could get up, how much she wants to hold him and tell him it’s going to be okay, to help him remember who he is, what they have. Help him figure out what he is now, what this all _means_.

It’s too much for her, though, the pain radiating from her wounds, the cold and weight of the water all too much, and her vision blurs out again, everything fading away into deep darkness.

—

_“Bucky…”_

Machines are beeping around her, she thinks, though she’s not quite sure, she could be imagining things. The first thing that’s really clear is the pain, dulled and fading, no where near as bad as it had been, but still there.

And she can’t really see much, her eyes hurting at the slightest contact with light, and she’s feeling a little light-headed, the room already spinning before her, consciousness still a bit beyond her, it seems.

Just before it all goes dark again, though, Steph could swear she sees a figure standing at the end of her bed, watching her carefully like they’re waiting for something. Waiting for her, maybe. And she can’t make out who it is, can’t really tell his face, not with the way it’s swimming before her.

She could swear she recognises those eyes, though, watching her with a sort of confused fear, one she’s seen before. On the face of a man she loves, has loved since she was twelve years old.

—

Everything’s a little sharper next time Steph opens her eyes, squinting a little against the bright hospital lights above her combined with the sun streaming through the blinds, and it takes her a second to register the music playing through the small room, and another second after that to turn her head and see Sam settled in a chair by her bed, reading silently, waiting for her to wake up.

For a moment, she smiles, just a little, settling her head back against the pillow.

“On your left.”

Out of the corner of her eye she seems Sam look up at her, and he smiles just a little, too.

_—_

As she watches Natasha leave, Steph can’t help but wish she was sticking around to help out, because they’re not done yet, not when Bucky’s still out there somewhere. And god knows where they’re going to find him, if they’re going to find him at all, but— the file in her hands is somewhere to start. It’s something, at least, and hopefully she can find some sort of lead in there somewhere.

Hopefully.

Letting out a deep breath, Steph steps back over to Sam, clutching the file in her hands as they both look down at Fury’s grave - and it’s funny to think she’s not the only one with this odd sensation anymore.

“I’m not asking you to come with me, Sam.”

“I know.”

Even as they Sam says it, Steph knows he’s not going anywhere. He’s proven himself time and time again that he’s dedicated to this, dedicated to whatever it is Steph needs. That he’s with her to the end of this, whatever that end may be.

She couldn’t ask for a better friend, really. She’s lucky as hell to have him.

“So, when do we start?”

Her grip tightens on the file, just for a moment. This isn’t going to be easy, she knows, and there’s no telling what they’re going to find on the way, but Steph needs to do this. More than anything else, she needs to find him.

She needs to bring Bucky home.

“We just did.”

 


	4. Is it alright if I call you lover (even though we don't know each other)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The file has so many places to start, and yet no where to start, and Steph can feel herself being driven to the edge from staring at the pages in this file so damn hard. She can’t even count how many hours she’s spent going over it time and time again, and she still doesn’t know which lead to jump at first. There’s too many possibilities, most of which will probably lead to dead ends, but they’re all possibilities that just can’t be ignored.
> 
> But the more dead ends she chases, the further away Bucky’s going to get, and Steph can’t let that happen.

The file has so many places to start, and yet _no where_ to start, and Steph can feel herself being driven to the edge from staring at the pages in this file so damn hard. She can’t even count how many hours she’s spent going over it time and time again, and she still doesn’t know which lead to jump at first. There’s too many possibilities, most of which will probably lead to dead ends, but they’re all possibilities that just _can’t_ be ignored.

But the more dead ends she chases, the further away Bucky’s going to get, and Steph can’t let that happen.

They’re a week into the hunt and they’ve barely even left DC yet. Between Steph and Sam, they’ve been scouring every piece of information they got in that file, picking up whatever scraps they can find and trying to find how it all fits, trying to find any possible link to where Bucky could be now.

Because if there’s one thing Steph knows, it’s that she’s gotta bring Bucky home. No matter what, he’s coming home.

—

“Steph, we’re not _going to Russia_ —“

Steph’s found a lead, possibly the most solid one they’ve found so far, and she knows part of her is holding onto this in hope that it’s going to bring her some sort of clue as to where Bucky’s hiding out.

And that’s enough, it has to be right now, considering how little they have to go on so far.

“Why not? Sam, this is _all we’ve got_ , I can’t just drop it—“

“You’re gonna have to, because I am not letting you fly over there based on a _hunch_.”

Cold, harsh frustration rumbles around in Steph’s stomach and she has to remind herself to control it, to keep it in check. It’s not Sam’s fault he doesn’t understand, he’s not married, he _can’t_ really know how desperate she is to find Bucky again.

Turning away from him, Steph sweeps up the papers and tucks them all back into the file neatly, determined to hunt this down wherever it takes her.

“It’s _legitimate evidence_ , Wilson. If you won’t go with me, I’ll just go on my own—“

“And then what?”

Sam’s question stops her dead in her tracks, not because she wasn’t expecting it, but because she hadn’t really— _thought_ about it. All she could imagine was finding something, _anything_ that links back to Bucky somehow.

“I— I don’t—“

“Miss-Great-Stategist, huh.”

Steph can’t help but smile, just a little. It’s shaky, but it’s still there. Sam seems to be good at that.

“Listen, I get it, you wanna find him. But chasing his _past_ isn’t the right way to do that.”

“I have to start _somewhere_ , Sam.”

Stepping closer, Sam takes the file from Steph’s hands and holds it up to her, like they haven’t gone through it a hundred times already.

“This. This is where we’re starting. And we’ll just have to keep pushing until we figure out what we’re missing, alright?”

Since when did Steph of all people need a voice of reason?

Clearing her throat, Steph takes the file back and drops it on the coffee table, her smile coming a little easier this time.

“Bossing around a Captain now, huh—“

It’s easy to joke with Sam, knowing he doesn’t hold it against her when she gets a little irrational, when she becomes more of that kid from Brooklyn who got into so many fights, and less the Sentinel of Liberty or whatever else they’re calling her these days.

Maybe because he knows both sides now.

And Sam takes it in his stride, just like he always does.

“Someone’s gotta keep you in line, Barnes”

“Watch it, Wilson.”

—

For once, Steph’s glad she listened to Sam. They didn’t have to go all the way to Russia— well, not yet, at least.

Apparently, they’re more than enough for them to comb through right here in DC.

The small facility looks like it’s been deserted for a while, not to mention it looks like it’s more of a prison than a facility. And if that thought didn’t make her sick, Steph would probably call it that.

She can’t stand it, though. Can’t handle the thought of Bucky being held captive in some sort of experimental jail cell. She looks at the seat in the middle of the room, the monitors and the restraints built into the arms and she can almost see him, she can just _imagine_ him shackled there for god knows what, and—

“Oh, god—“

Sam’s voice breaks her out of her horrific daze, her head snapping around to the corner he’s investigating, and from where Steph stands it looks like a work-station of some kind. Before she can reach him, though, Sam’s already turning around, trying to usher her away.

“It’s not important, you don’t need to see—“

“What— _Sam—_ “

It’s almost as though Sam forgets Steph’s faster than he is, and she’s slipped around him before he can stop her, hurrying over to the station and tapping at the keyboard, scrolling through what looks like— surveillance footage? Experiment logs? It’s hard to know which, until Steph opens up the most recently dated file, and—

“ _Bucky_ —“

The word leaves her in horror before she can help herself as he comes up on the screen, broken and injured and barely even _himself_ as someone works on repairing his arm, fixing the damage _she did_ with the shield she’s got on her back right now.

And she can’t look away, can’t tear her eyes off the way something switches in his eyes, the way he lashes out at the scientists around him, all but throwing one across the room before he stops.

“Steph— you don’t need to watch this, let’s go—“

His hand’s on her shoulder, but Steph just shrugs it off as she leans closer, infuriated as Pierce arrives and shocked at the words that leave his mouth.

_“I knew her._ ”

He remembered. Jesus Christ, _he remembered her_ —

“We gotta make a move, c’mon—“

Sam’s getting edgy, and Steph knows they’ve been here for too long, but they can spare the time it takes her to copy the files onto a drive and tuck it away safely in her belt before they turn to leave, her head already spinning. There’s more on those videos, she knows it.

Maybe even something that will lead her back to him.

—

Steph slips the headphones on carefully before hitting play on the video she copied over. She and Sam went through the earlier ones hours ago, to see what information they could pull from them, but— he didn’t think this one should be watched.

She needs to see it, though. She can’t— _not_ , not when it’s so recent. Maybe it’ll tell her something. Give her the piece she’s been missing. She can’t wake Sam up, though, not when he’s already working all hours to try and help her.

Before she can stop herself, Steph hits play on the video and brings her knees up carefully, hugging them as she watches, and it’s— god, it’s not pretty, she already knew it was going to be.

But this is— _awful_ , watching Pierce treat Bucky like he’s _nothing_ , like he’s just— some sort of tool, not even a person, and— it’s making Steph sick, watching this, seeing the way Bucky struggles to figure out who she was, why she knew him and why _he_ knew _her_.

It kills her, seeing him right there on the screen, but it’s not even _him_. This isn’t her husband, and she’s— god, she’s terrified she’ll never find him again.

Her eyes widen in terror as the restraints lock into place, holding Bucky down and he looks _terrified_ of whatever’s coming. His chest is heaving as they start some sort of procedure, and then he’s _screaming_ , yelling in pain, terror written all over his face and he can’t _do anything_ — god, how much did they _do this to him—_

The headphones slip off Steph’s head all of a sudden, scaring the hell out of her before a hand settles on her shoulder, one that’s all too familiar after all this time.

“I told you not to watch it.”

Sam’s too nosy for his own good. Or maybe his instincts are just too good, Steph’s not sure which. She sure as hell doesn’t question it as she curls in on herself, leaning her forehead against her knees and trying to catch her breath, trying to get that screaming out of her head.

Like it’s ever going to go away, now.

“Steph—“

She hears him step around the couch, moving her laptop and sitting on the coffee table in front of her and resting his hands on hers, waiting. If there’s one thing Steph’s learned in this time, since meeting Sam, it’s that he always knows what to say. And what not to say.

And most importantly, _when_ not to say it.

“I’m fine—“

“I know.”

Looking up at him, Steph sees the same look of concern; not one that says she can’t handle this, but one that says she doesn’t have to on her own. She never really got used to that, with anyone but Bucky.

He’s still here, though. Despite how stubborn Steph is, no matter how hard-headed she can be and how determined she’s become to find someone who doesn’t seem to want to be found— Sam stayed. He’s here, whether she likes it or not.

It’s nice, having someone to count on.

“I just— wish we had _something_ , y’know? Something to find him, or— just find out if he’s _okay_ or—“

“Whoa— Steph—“

Sam laughs softly, not in any sort of cruel way, but more in a sense of amusement. Somehow, he’s learned how to deal with her crazy train of thought.

“Listen— we’re gonna find him, okay? The guy’s probably still trying to put his head together, and— if that were me? I’d be in hiding, too.”

Which is sort of bittersweet, in a way. This is— her _husband_ they’re talking about. Steph’s supposed to be the one who helps Bucky when he can’t help himself. She’s supposed to _fix this_. How can she do that when she can’t even find him? When he won’t even _let her_ find him?

What if he never wants her to find him, what if he never forgives her for letting all of this happen to him, what if—

“C’mon—“

Sam gives her hands a gentle squeeze, like he can tell she’s having her own internal freakout and he’s trying to bring her back to reality before she can get too carried away. She’s good at that, overthinking things and stressing herself out. Especially when it comes to Bucky.

“Look— if it helps? You’ve finally got enough proof that you should be dragging my ass all over Europe—“

“You— yeah? Really?”

“Yeah—“

Steph’s phone chimes on the table beside Sam, scaring the crap out of both of them because _who the hell_ is looking for her at this time of night?

Letting out a half-sigh, Steph picks up the phone and taps at the screen, only to find it’s _Stark_ of all people who’s trying to hunt her down, a random message about hunting down and wiping out HYDRA bases and— finding Loki’s sceptre?

Okay, this could be important.

“Looks like Europe is gonna have to wait.”

Steph holds the phone up for Sam to see, and she knows exactly what he’s thinking as his forehead wrinkles in confusion. How the hell that sceptre got into such wrong hands, they’ll never know.

What they _do_ know is they have to get it back.

“Do you want help?”

“No— I need you to hold things down here, keep hunting down leads for me. I got this.”

She hopes she does, at least. Who knows, maybe one of the bases will lead her closer to Bucky, too.

—

This is definitely not ideal.

Sitting in a jet flying over to Europe to chase down HYDRA, to find the sceptre of all things and _how did that even go missing in the first place_? Of all the things to lose, of _all the things_ Fury let slip into some dark corner of SHIELD’s labs so it could be taken and used by HYDRA, it had to be Loki’s sceptre.

Apparently, this disaster is going to keep haunting them. That’s all it’s done since Fury hunted her down that very first time, because aliens were coming for the goddamn cube.

Rubbing her forehead, Steph looks over the file again, over the information Stark’d sent her on the way back to New York. All the details about HYDRA and where they're holding the sceptre, what the facility is like, and most importantly what the security is like. And as much as she’s aware this is important, that they need to get this thing out of HYDRA’s hands, this is precisely where Steph doesn’t want to be right now.

She doesn’t want to be in a jet surrounded by people she doesn’t trust - besides Natasha, who looks just about as happy to be here as Steph feels. She doesn’t want to be dealing with Stark’s hunger for new puzzles parading under the name of justice, or something.

The person she trusts is back in DC, running down leads and combing through files to find whatever he can to bring her husband back to him. Which is exactly where she wants to be, right now.

Best to get this over and done with, so she can go back and find him.

—

Steph would be lying if she said she wasn’t getting a little tired of this guy running around as he pleases.

Ultron was a disaster and a half to deal with, and there’s the _entire city of Sokovia_ missing now thanks to that psychotic robot. The one saving grace is the people are safe, thank god, but their lives, their _homes_ … all gone.

All because of a goddamn crazy robot.

If one good thing came out of this, though, it’s that they now have a whole facility to work, train, and live, with what they’re calling the New Avengers.

Sounds cheesy. And more than Steph wants to deal with right now, but she’s got a team to think of. She can’t just stick it out on her own and expect it to last.

“You gonna use all that cool tech to help us out?”

It’s good to have Sam back at her side, and Steph can’t help but smile as she looks out over the team. They’re not really a team yet, but they’re getting there, getting used to working together, to _being_ together. Even Wanda, who really has every reason not to talk to any of them anymore.

“That’s the plan. You’ve got full access to the facility, too, and I already brought all the files over on my laptop.”

“Are you settling down here, then, or—“

“No— no. I need my own place— I need a home.”

She needs something that could be home, at least. If Bucky ever comes home.

—

Steph’s trying to split her time evenly between the facility and home - a sweet little apartment in Red Hook, something she knows Bucky would have loved, if they’d ever gotten to go home and settle down. It’s close to the water, not too big but it wouldn’t be too cramped with two people, either.

At least if he comes home— _when_ , Barnes, _when he comes home—_

Dropping her bag by the door, Steph can’t help but yawn, already run down. It’s a long drive and she’s already been home almost every night, this week. The tech at the facility is great and makes the searching _a lot_ easier, but it doesn’t feel right, leaving it all running there. It’s too close to home, for Steph to keep it all there.

So everything’s stored on her laptop, and it stays with her usually, or with Sam, and he’s usually got a copy, anyway.

It’s been months since Ultron, and still they haven’t found anything. And Steph has to try not to think too hard about that, about the fact that their leads are running colder than ever, that it’s been _so long_ since Steph saw Bucky. Since the helicarriers, since the crash, since—

Rubbing at her right shoulder absently, Steph sets the shield down against the coffee table and settles down on the couch, already done for the night. Between training the team, trying to get them to _work_ as a team, and trying to run down these leads, she’s barely even got time for _everything else_ that’s brewing.

And more is coming, she can feel it.

She’s just about to tell her inner-self to be quiet and put her feet up on the table when there’s a knock on the door, and she’s immediately suspicious. No one knows where she lives except Sam, and he always calls before he comes by unless it’s an emergency. And even then, he calls on the way.

Picking up the shield and slipping it securely on her arm, Steph moves silently to the door, stopping beside it and leaning her head back against the wall, waiting. If it’s Sam, he’ll say something— maybe it’s Natasha, maybe something _has_ gone wrong, or— god, maybe someone’s found—

There’s another knock, a little heavier, and from this close Steph can hear— metal?

Pushing off the wall she squints through the peephole and— _what_ —

She swings the door open, shield still on her arm, and stares in disbelief. This has to be a dream, she’s had it a hundred times before where she opens the door and Bucky is _standing there_ staring at her like nothing’s ever changed, even when _everything_ has.

“So… killer robots, huh…”

He tries for a smile, and it’s no where near as solid as it once was, but it’s— god, it’s _him_ , he’s here, he came _home_.

“Yeah— y-yeah, killer robots—“

Steph’s voice catches in her throat, leaning against the door and watching as he digs his hands into his pockets, and— all she wants to do is pull him inside and _hold him_ , sit with him, hear his voice, tell him everything’s going to be _just fine_ now, but she knows she can’t.

Not when she knows what happened to him. She has to let him, and every moment of waiting _kills her_.

“Not— a thing, now, right?”

Bucky doesn’t seem sure, but he raises his right hand anyway, holding it out to her and Steph has to keep herself from grabbing on too tight as she reaches to take it, and she is _not crying_ , Captain America _does not cry_ —

Who is she kidding—

“No way, no— no killer robots, anymore, so—“

He finally looks her in the eye, and— god, it’s _him_ —

“Come— come inside? Please?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and Steph wonders if he’s going to say no, if he’s going to turn and disappear faster than she can catch him, but then he nods wordlessly, taking a small, shuffling step towards her and holding his left hand up.

“I— lost my ring.”

Steph laughs, choked and uneven as she squeezes his right hand and reaches for his left. It doesn’t scare her, it’s— it’s his, it’s _him_ , it couldn’t scare her.

He never did, and he never will.

“We’ll get you a new one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE~~~
> 
> I'm so sorry to everyone who has been waiting for this to update, I've been getting messages for the past like 6 months and I honestly have had the worst writers block this year ;; IT'S DONE THOUGH!!!
> 
> It doesn't follow what looks to come in CA:CW mostly because I didn't really ever want to take it that way, hence it being a bit short. I hope everyone liked it and liked the ending!!


End file.
